Dark Humor
by DahliaASant
Summary: What if Batman had chosen to save Harvey instead of Rachel--what would happen if the White Knight had fallen? Rachel grieves and can't quite pull herself together again, but she's thirsty for revenge, and the Joker wants to exploit her anger.. Joker/Rach
1. One: Aftermath

AN:

Hi everyone! Welcome to my Dark Knight fanfic, "Dark Humor." It's loosely based on the Dark Knight events all the way up to Harvey and Rachel's wiring to explosives…the part where Batman has to choose on whether to save Rachel or Harvey Dent. From that point onward, this fanfic is purely creative speculation, towards the "what-ifs" that COULD have (but probably wouldn't) happened if Batman had chosen to save Harvey Dent rather than Rachel (and therefore, ended up saving Rachel because Joker switched the addresses on him, remember?)

Meaning Harvey Dent is dead, Gotham is in chaos, Rachel is distraught and victimized, and ends up changing dramatically from then on, becoming darker, making choices she never thought she would make to get her own vengeance…but what if the Joker steps in on the aftermath of Harvey's death to intervene and take advantage of her vulnerability?

Yes, this is a JokerxRachel fanfic (or Jokachel for short). There's not many out there, and for some reason I really like extremely unlikely/impossible pairings if following the original storyline of things, and this is obviously one of them. I also love making these pairings as realistic as possible. Obviously Rachel and the Joker will have a very twisted relationship, if even considered one. And obviously it's going to take a lot to put that twisted relationship into realistic proportions.

So I'm going to try and do that within this extremely dark little fanfic that I'm ready to pour my heart and soul into because I love the Joker and I don't like a one-dimensional vulnerable portrayal of Rachel and I like the two of them together. Sound good?

Bear with me. This first chapter is gonna suck…but I promise it will pick up later on! Please read and review because I love and reply to all my feedback…and enjoy.

* * *

**Dark Humor**

**One**

It had been a day since his death, yet she could mourn forever.

"I'm sorry, Rachel."

It was empty everywhere. Emptiness was inside of her body, cold and pervading and relentless, flowing through her veins like poison. Emptiness filled the air around her with a stale deadness, filled even her 

eyes to the point that it was no longer possible to her to shed the once endless stream of tears. Her mind was empty, devoid of any logic, any reasoning or understanding as to what was happening, who the voice belonged to that spoke to her now in such soothing, desperate tones to comfort her. It was all_, _for a moment, wonderfully, ecstatically _empty_, her world for once free of all the chaos and fear and terror that had stricken her daily life, had always enveloped her in the vulnerability of her own humanity. The fact that her life had just been on the line, that _she_ might have been—and very well _should_ have been—the person to have died tonight as Gotham's most recent victim from all that bastard's madness…

"Oh, God," She moaned, her body suddenly convulsing on its own as Rachel found herself falling forward, straight into Bruce Wayne's solid, strong arms.

The tears came then, hot and piercing, a new wave of ferocious pain so strong she was sure the tears would leave scathing burn marks across her red cheeks. She was still unable to register the events in her mind; the feeling of having been restrained, tied to a chair and forced to silently count down, with her lover on the other end, the minutes before her own death. And they had _both_ been so sure of it…both so sure she was going to be the one to die. She had accepted it. She had almost _yearned _for it, as sickening as it was to contemplate afterwards, because it meant keeping Harvey alive, keeping the fragile hope that had been Gotham's backbone as stable as possible amidst the destruction. Harvey Dent had never deserved to die. If anything, Rachel knew she should have been the next innocent civilian in the trail of a madman's bloody path of massacre if it meant protecting those who truly mattered.

But something had ruined it all, and she was still _here._ Bruce's hand was pressed against the back of her neck as she sobbed freely into his chest, not caring about her shaken display of human weakness at this very moment. Strong, almost rough fingers—a vigilante's fingers, used more to battering than comforting—tangled in her hair, almost stroking it as she shuddered and eventually calmed, her body heaving against him as if wracking for air. It _hurt, _this grief, this _feeling_ she had never quite felt before in her life. It was as if Rachel had lost a vital part of herself, as if the fucking murdering bastard that had stolen Harvey's life had torn out her heart and sank his dagger straight into the bleeding, throbbing organ, cutting it away until there was nothing left but crumpled, torn arteries and something that could never possibly function on its own again.

Yet as her breathing slowed after what seemed an eternity, the woman's brain began to function again, just slightly enough that she realized Bruce was still holding her, his body still and frigid as a statue. She gave a deep, shuddering sigh that felt as if it wracked her entire body, biting her lip and tasting the own bitter salt of her tears as the very last of them ran down her cheeks in hot daggers. Raising her head hesitantly, she gazed up at Bruce Wayne's face—the face of the second most important man in her life—and saw the hardness of his almost coal-black eyes, realized the conflicting mass of emotions that lay beneath those ruddy irises.

"Bruce," She sighed, her voice shaking with the effort to restrain the emotion from her voice, "What happened? Why…why did you save _me?_"

Goddamn her voice, she thought, for all its shaking and glaring weakness. Every syllable was an incessant trembling, as she voiced the grim thoughts that had plagued her mind ever since Batman had thrown himself through the endless rows of barrels and almost flown to her, saving her from her would-be inevitable death.

Yet when he had come for her, when she had seen those black eyes, always sharp and resilient against the black of the mask, she had screamed. She had screamed and thrashed against her chair, had begged him to turn back, to go away, to go to Harvey ,to save him, _oh god, please save him, I don't deserve this, I don't deserve this please we both know it's Harvey it _has _to be Harvey let me go please—_

And his eyes, the entire time they had found her face, had been uncharacteristically wide with horror. She hadn't been the only one to believe something had gone terribly wrong in those final moments. When the warehouse burst into flames, and she had shut her eyes and prayed that those fires had consumed _her_ in her moment of panic, had even struggled and fought in Bruce's iron grip to reach out for that fire, to somehow make things right and save Harvey in the process—she knew it wasn't supposed to be like this. Her life was an accidental occurrence, and even she had not thought it deserved saving.

Those dark eyes met hers now with the same confusion that she herself felt. Rachel bit her quivering lip and fought back a heavy sigh, knowing they had all been victims yet again. Victims of another trick from the sadist that had thrown them all into the jaws of chaos, had damned them into deserting and causing the deaths of each other through choices only amusing to the insane and unredeemable. Her body, fragile and shaking to the bone, was filled with sudden adrenaline at the thought of the murdering bastard—at the thought of her hands around his neck, the thought of Batman pummeling his face to a pump, and perhaps even herself, turning the knife upon his goddamned smiling face—

"_Rachel._"

Bruce's voice penetrated her thoughts, brought a wave of sudden, almost alien calm to her frenzied emotions. Rachel saw his face through her blur of fresh tears, blinking them away with an inaudible curse at her damned tear ducts. His gaze was wiped free of the conflicted emotion, now, wrinkled only with a worry that cast an almost sickly pall over his hardened face. She sighed again, before forcing a smile to crack upon unwilling lips,

"Bruce…thank you for saving me. _Thank you," _ The words felt so artificial coming from her lips, yet perhaps she could force herself, or even Bruce, to believe them if they were repeated, "But…I can't think of anything else right now, other than what's going to happen to Gotham…to everyone…because _Harvey_…"

_Damnit, Rachel, get a hold of yourself!_

Her foot dug hard into the floor beneath her, fists clenching and biting into skin. Rachel bit her lip and almost tasted blood with the strength of it, turning her head to the side. The guilt washed through her 

like a wave of nausea, guilt so strong she could feel it emanating from Bruce's body and tainting his penthouse.

"Rachel, Gotham will be all right," Bruce replied, gazing not at her, but at the window nearby, his eyes narrowed and turned so she wouldn't be able to see the emotions upon his face, "Harvey…Harvey wouldn't have wanted any of us to give in, and you know that. We all know that. Not one of us is going to back down and give into the Joker's demands. We're going to…"

He hesitated, then, as Rachel felt herself flinch at the murderer's name. Her teeth clenched; her body burned with the sudden onslaught of adrenaline and rage that threatened to consume her at that very moment.

"…We're going to avenge Harvey's murder, and bring the Joker to justice. We'll stop all the chaos. We'll _get_ him, Rachel, I swear to you we will."

He turned towards her, suddenly, his tall frame almost towering over her, his eyes pleading now, with some other look upon his face…something all too familiar from the days when Rachel had just met Harvey, had just gotten to know the man she had so loved after Bruce himself. It was the longing in his eyes, amidst the death and destruction that they had just survived through, the longing that struck Rachel as the most disgusting thing to have happened within the hour.

"_Bruce_," She hissed, and then it, too, became an exhausted sigh, "Bruce…I just…"

She pressed her hands against the glass of the window before them, gazing out across the towering buildings of Gotham, reduced to almost menacingly black figures under the brilliant gold and jasper of the setting sun. Her stomach heaved again with the nauseous, contorted waves of emotion; the horrific guilt, the aching grief, the agonizing weakness, the unrestrained rage…

Rachel didn't realize her fingers had been trembling violently against the glass until Bruce's warm hand pressed against her own. How strange and cold her hand had felt just then, as stiff and dead as a corpse's. A grim, dark humor bubbled within her mind at the thought; perhaps she hadn't made it out _alive_, after all. Perhaps she really had died back there, and this was her ghost, speaking to Batman, grieving over the loss of her loved one. She entertained the thought for awhile until she realized the absurdity of it, and her mind struggled to focus again on the here and now, on what she would do next with her life, what she _could_ do while Gotham was mourning the death of its one, true hero for decades and decades to come.

"Rachel, please, _please_ get some rest here for the night. After what happened…after almost _losing_ you, and after…after everything else, I…"

She shut her eyes, not wanting to see the look on Bruce's face as he spoke, not wanting to see his own trembling fingers upon her own. Not while they weren't Harvey's—not while Harvey's voice hadn't been her last. How unfair it was, that her voice was his finality, and his had not been the same for her…how _cruel _and sick it was, like a joke. Like a damned _joke_. God, could the rage get any worse? It twisted inside 

of her like a worm, as if it were eating away at all that remained of her feeble composition, nagging and horrific…

"Bruce, it's okay," She replied mechanically, snapping her eyes opened again, "Really…I'll be okay. I can't…thank you enough for helping me, really. But…"

Forcibly, Rachel pressed her other hand over his own, the dead coldness swallowing up his warm skin like a silent finality,

"I need to be alone. I need…to think, and to deal with things. And I need…"

She took in a deep, hard breath, so rapidly her lungs burned with the effort,

"I need to go back to headquarters right now. I need to think about my job. To think about Gotham, and so should you."

Bruce's eyes hardened in protest; he jerked his hand away from hers, his brows knitting over his darkened gaze, walking slightly towards her as he spoke,

"Rachel, I don't want to leave you by yourself, unprotected and hurt. The Joker just captured and tried to _kill_ you, and who knows how long he's going to stay pent up in his little prison cell? I can't let that happen to you…not _again!_ You need to stay here tonight, where you can fully recover, and I'm sure Harvey wanted that too, I'm sure he would want you to be taken care of!"

_God, he has to be joking._

Rachel's eyes shut again, if only to control the sudden wave of fresh anger, stronger than ever before. Her emotions had been turbulent, unpredictable, raging like a storm since her near-death incident, and now she was fighting as hard as she could to keep it at bay, if only to keep herself from lashing out regrettably against her savior.

"Bruce, _please_," She replied in a near-hiss, her teeth clenched tight against tongue, "_Please_ don't act like Harvey right now, not when _no one_ can ever replace him. I don't really _care_ about my safety anymore, and I doubt the Joker will be bothering me anytime soon since he's locked away."

For a moment, she almost regretted the words that came so harshly from her mouth—Bruce's gaze seemed hurt, yet a sickening sense of smugness filled her at her retaliation,

"Now…please, just let me go to headquarters. Alfred can drive me, if you want…but I need to take care of myself. I'm a big girl. I've been through hell tonight, and really, this is where I have to go back to doing my job. Hell, maybe I'll even have a chat with the Joker while I'm down there."

As she said the last sentence, she knew it had been originally intended as a joke, perhaps to lighten the mood—yet both she and Bruce's bodies grew tense at the name, and her teeth clenched again, her blood hot and sharp with the violent images in her mind. Was it possible to be so sickeningly, wantonly _chaotic_ in her almost lusty desires to enact pain upon another human being? She would have thought it 

impossible before, but now, as she suddenly stared down at her hands, Rachel could only see them reddened with blood.

_Stop it, you're being delirious, you've just been through extreme trauma and you're thinking of revenge. It's a normal reaction, your anger…you just need to sleep through the night, and you need to get yourself back together. You need to fix yourself again, put things back to normal._

Nothing would ever be normal anymore.

"Rachel, please. I can tell by your expression, you're not okay. You're not going to be okay for awhile, just let me…"

She cut off the pleading of his voice automatically, her tone curt and sharp,

"Let you _what?_ Comfort me? Return to how things were _before_ Harvey? Please, Bruce. There's no going back. I was going to marry him, and I wasn't going to look back…not even for you."

Rachel turned on her heel, then, her head hanging slightly; she knew the surprise that would be etched upon his face, surmising that perhaps he hadn't read her letter yet after all. Her body lurched with uncomfortable pain at the thought of her old friend's sadness—but at the same time she also felt that horrific smugness intensify, as if she were enforcing her own strength through playing at his weakness.

None of it made sense. But she was so sick now, so sick and tired…she just needed to sleep. She just needed to press rewind, to wake up, to make this all go _away._

"_Rachel."_

The attorney turned on her heel and summoned up the remainder of her shaky, convoluted strength to propel her legs forward through the room, towards the nearest exit. Bruce's last word had been more of a submission, of a grim farewell than anything else, and she knew it. As her heels clacked in a soft staccato against the tiled floor, she welcomed the continued rage that rippled throughout her body and bloomed in her heart, gazing out at the final tendrils of the setting sun through the penthouse window.

There was nothing but smeared blood across the sky.

oOo

"Where to, dear? Your apartment?"

Alfred's cheery voice seemed constantly unaffected by the happenings around it, as if the only reliable thing in Gotham city. His constant calm was almost comforting to Rachel as she mentally staggered through the overwhelming changes, the tragedy, and the pain. A small, genuine smile almost prickled across her face as she replied, as smoothly as possible,

"Not this evening, Alfred. I'll be going to headquarters. I have some work to do before the day is over."

A long pause came from the front seat, where Alfred had been driving. She nestled her body against the comfortably cushioned backseat, wanting with an overwhelming urge to curl her arms around her knees and lay her head upon them in the fetal position. Like a child. Like an animal, even…so desperate for comfort amidst fear. Disgust wracked her nerves at that thought, at being so pathetically weak, and she wiped away the images, replaced them only with cold determination.

Alfred replied, then, his voice still as cheery as before, though considerably lower,

"Are you sure that's the best course of action for the night? Master Wayne said you were going there, of course, but you do need rest and recovery for the morning. Gotham needs you more than ever since the other day's events…and so do we. Even Batman needs time to recover."

_But what I want to do…is get justice the fastest way possible. Get some retribution for the dead. Something for…for Harvey._

Rachel's eyes closed for what seemed to be the umpteenth time that evening; it was a habit she was getting, perhaps to escape from a stressful situation.

_But there's never any escape. Didn't you learn that only yesterday? It follows you, it haunts you, it hunts you…the memory, for the rest of your life. Or at least until you can do something about it. _

"Ms. Dawes?"

Rachel took a breath and opened her eyes, gazing into Alfred's own worried pair through the rear-view mirror. Her fingers clenched and unclenched against her lap.

"Alfred, thank you for the concern. But Batman overtaxes himself…and I know how much I can handle. I'm not going to do anything…just talk. Nothing more."

Alfred's eyes hardened, if that were at all possible for his gentle features. Rachel knew he could read her even better than Bruce, perhaps because of his years of experience, encompassing hardships and moments of perseverance that she would be unable to even think of, yet alone see herself experiencing in her near future. He would know she was seeking an encounter with the Joker, some interrogation time alone while he was imprisoned, and she didn't even need to voice her intent. Alfred could see it all in her expression, her demeanor, as if she were a book to be consistently laid open for his reading pleasure.

Again, the thought of her own horrific vulnerability; of being physically, mentally weak, surrounded by almost supernaturally strong criminals and vigilantes…it brought back the nausea in her gut, the sickening sensation of guilt that was so strong it could only be accompanied by a jarring pain. Always the mouse amidst the hungry cats. The prey. The bait.

"Keep in mind, if it is the Joker you seek to interrogate, to even get a scrap of information out of…he will be unyielding. He is a man out only for seeing others suffer, Ms. Dawes, just as you were recently 

subject to. I believe only encountering him again will lead to frustration, anger…anything but what you may wish for."

"I just want to _talk_ to him, Alfred…just…"

Her words trailed; she clenched the soft leather cushioning of the backseat, her nails scraping against its surface, unable to decipher any logic in her intentions or compulsion to interrogate the criminal who Batman couldn't even truly crack. All Rachel knew was that her emotions; her raw, hurt, ravaged emotions, were possessing her, pushing her forward to this madman, to see how he really played with his victims, to get into his mind. It was seemingly impossible, yet…God, if she could _look_ into the eyes of Harvey's killer, to _know_ he would be locked up in his little cell forever, suffering solitude, that the horror was finally over, that Harvey was the last person he managed to…

As if he could read her mind, Alfred nodded, nothing but sympathy and understanding in his almost heavy voice,

"Of course, Rachel. I understand completely."

oOo

She had Alfred drop her off a few blocks before the station; she needed the walk, and she needed it badly. Rachel hadn't been in fresh, actual air of the outside world since the incident yesterday night—well, not _mentally_, at least, not amidst her horror and panicked state of mind as Batman had pulled her out of harm's way and taken her directly to the hospital, and then, ignoring any arguments on her part, straight to his penthouse for complete recovery. It was a sick joke, the way Bruce thought he could still command certain aspects of her life—they way he would hoist her around at times, like she was some delicate little china doll, something of glass in a world of hard, unforgiving surfaces, waiting to be shattered the moment he'd turn his head in the opposite direction.

But she wasn't so completely helpless. She was still on her two feet at this moment, still standing, still walking resolutely forward (and quite literally) since the death of her lover. Of course, it still stung; of course, her mind was reduced to shambles at the moment, and she was being pulled towards the police station just for the sake of relishing those sweet victorious emotions that would come with seeing the Joker imprisoned…but it would only _help._ It would only get _better,_ wouldn't it, now that the greatest tragedy that could have possibly hit Gotham had indeed happened, and anything more was unimaginable?

It could only get better after things got worse. Alfred had said something like that to her before, and she was repeating it now as a silent mantra in her head. The station would be coming up soon, and she raised her head at the thought; she couldn't let them see her weak, vulnerable, not for one moment. Not when she wanted to interrogate the Joker. They would think she'd be incapable of it, still recovering, her mind still in the throes of chaos and panic from losing _him…_

_Shut the fuck up and concentrate. You're at the doors._

Yes, she would be fine. She would be completely—

"Oh my fucking _God._"

Everything was burning.

The police headquarters was reduced to a mass of rubble and debris, as if it had imploded in on itself, the rustic building a hilltop of brick in uneven places, traces of roaring, seething fire and destruction still raging in others. Her knees buckled beneath her slacks, her hand clutched toward the nearest rail of the stairway before the crumbling building, breath short and frantic in utter disbelief. What had _happened?_ What was going on? What…

A shower of paper fluttered amidst the debris before her—and as she bent forward, she recognized them as cards. Countless cards buried amidst brick and rubble, imbued with the face she so despised, the face she hated, the face that made bile rise to her throat and that murderous instinct pump in her veins yet again. Pushing away her nausea, her trembling, she made her way across the stairs and through the nearly unhinged doors.

The explosion had been recent; perhaps an hour ago, perhaps even less. She was coughing against an onslaught of thick, churning smoke and stepping across more and more fallen brick and wood and debris, making her way through what used to be the solid remnants of headquarters, traversing across vacated jail cells, some smattered with rapidly drying blood. She wondered, her heart pulsing heavily against her ears, whether the bastard was still here, whether he had escaped, whether this had all been _his_ doing in the first place.

Yet she knew it was. Who else would be so disgusting, so heartless? Forcing back another potentially loud cough against the smoke, Rachel stalked across a pathway of familiar bodies tangled beneath her—officers caught in the explosion, their faces mangled and frozen still in death; some wide-eyed, some as if they were sleeping, some wounded and disfigured. The source of the explosion came up soon enough—she bit her lip and covered her mouth, fighting the fresh wave of bile and nausea at the sight of the bloated-looking former prisoner, his stomach torn completely open, innards on display and slashed in a bloody red, dripping mess for all the world to see. God, the smell, the thickness of his blood…could a human actually _bleed_ so much?

Her heels were slick against the ever-growing red pool of the man's insides, and at first she was afraid she would slip into the sea of bloody red, struggle and drown in it all. A dark, humorous streak followed that thought, and she had the sickening urge to laugh—desperation against her situation, which only seemed to grow worse and worse. If he was still here…

_If he's still here, I'm going to see him. And maybe he can finish the job he had intended by wiring me up in the first place. The job that ended the way it wasn't supposed to end. Maybe then it will be fair this way. Or maybe…maybe I could avenge Harvey…_

That thought seemed funnier than that of drowning. She actually fought the conscious urge to laugh; yet it was a bitter chuckle, knowing her efforts would be futile.

But how could she live with herself not even _trying?_

How could she live with herself _at all_ anymore?

Rachel pushed all thoughts aside at the sight of a familiar desk nearby—_her_ desk, where she knew some of Harvey's possessions had been stored before…the incident. She quickly ran towards it, a sense of relief flooding her veins for once in these past two horrific days. With a jerk of the cabinet, Rachel rummaged through desperately, hissing rapid expletives beneath her breath in frustration as she searched, and finally pulled out one of Harvey's pistols, which she knew to still be loaded.

_At least I'll be armed before I die._

But there could be no one here. The building was relatively empty, and she knew the firemen and hospital trucks would arrive soon enough. A destroyed headquarters would not go unnoticed, and the bastard would have run like a dog with his tail between his legs, slobbering his filth all over anyone who crossed his path. She turned on her heel, knowing the silence could only mean that he was not there after all—

And then a hideously familiar cackle rang just behind her tensed body, and Rachel stood frozen in place.

There was a scream—a man's scream, also familiar, yet contorted, twisted in what could only be incredible pain…

_No. Not again. This needs to _stop!

Without thinking, her feet sprang forward, lunging for the nearest room in which the incessant, high-pitched, shrieking laughter ensued. Rachel had no time to consider what she was getting herself into, what she would find, what her chances even were of coming out of this alive.

The door to the interrogation room was wide open, and it was waiting for her.

She stepped through.

* * *

**Again, I know…not the best first chapter, I apologize. By the way, I realize Joker's escape from jail in the movie went on the same time Rachel and Harvey were kidnapped, yet I guess I decided to take creative liberties in my own hands and use this as the opportune moment for their first encounter. His escape is still within a short amount of time since then, anyways. I just got the inspiration for this 'fic after reading some really amazingly good Jokachel fanfics earlier in the day and now I'm writing this all night because I think I am in love with the Dark Knight and if I could marry a movie we would be stepping down the aisle right now…haha. Anyway, reviews are appreciated and vital to my updating…and if I want to continue this or not. Oh, there WILL be a Chapter 2 very very soon, because that's where Joker comes in, and I really am eager to write and portray him…like, craaaaaaazy eager. But now I have to sleep because it's 6 a.m. and I just finished typing this out and ahhhh sleep!! 'Til next chapter, everyone!**


	2. Two: Encounter

Hi again everyone! I want to give a HUGE HUGE HUGE thank you to my recent reviewers, fave-ers, and story alert-ers, because really you are the reason that I came up with this chapter so fast!

Individual thank-you's and replies:

xheartxcorex: Thank you so much! And yes, yes, who wouldn't LOVE to marry the Dark Knight, as well as certain characters within it? God, I sound like such a fan-girl…but I guess it can't be helped, haha.

Kendra Luehr: Wow that is so sweet of you to say, thank you so much! And yes, Jokachel 'fics have been my recent obsession as well, which is why the sudden creation of this fanfic, because of my impatience for others to update their own :P And I know what you mean about hard to find quality fanfics in general…that can be frustrating especially with unpopular couples! I sincerely hope I don't disappoint you with the beginning of their "relationship" in this chapter!

XPrettyXWomanX17X: Thank you! I'm so glad you're excited! And yes, love the Star Wars reference, vengeance pretty much is the path to the dark side, literally or non-literally (lol)…but we know it's so hard to avoid sometimes, especially with our flawed little human emotions. It's a sad thing, really…especially when others exploit it (ahem Joker)…

Highway Girl: Thank you so much! And yes, a new chapter is here soon (yay)! Hopefully we'll see more and more of Jokachel with time!

And now for Chapter 2. It may seem rather brief (even though it's actually longer than Chapter 1) but I promise you it will pick up, especially with the Joker's actual entrance into the story. Things will just get more interesting from here on, promised.

Thank you for reading, and as always, let me know what you think…and enjoy!

* * *

**Dark Humor**

**Two**

The former assistant District Attorney was tense and poised as she readied herself for what lay within the interrogation room. Sweat creased her palms, lined her forehead with the telltale signs of human nerves—yet she couldn't afford to give into that now. It was too _late_ to go back, propelled by the violent emotions in her body, by her desire to exact whatever she could upon the mad man before he would undoubtedly overpower her, or at least to try and bring some justice to Harvey's death.

_You're an idiot, Rachel. You're a damned idiot._

But she knew that. If she hadn't been an idiot, she would have never befriended the Batman or nearly married the District Attorney of Gotham City in the first place. Without another beat, as the hideous chuckling continued, the screams she had just heard reduced to a loud, disjointed gurgling, Rachel dove through the door, her gun in hand, praying her was at least _alone—_

Rachel didn't expect to see the crumpled body of Lau in the hands of the smirking clown as she entered, cradling him as tenderly as if he were a child. Her body froze in terror at the sight; thin dribbles of blood ran down Lau's slender throat, the only true indication of any assault, yet his slanted eyes were wide and rolled upwards in cold, cruel death. His skin was already pale and ashen beneath the sharp, fluorescent lights, and for a sickening moment Rachel could imagine Lau's body beneath the ground, already crawling with maggots, already destroyed in its fleeting mortality…

She almost forgot about the piercing gaze of the man cradling the dead body against him. It was only when he uttered a low, almost guttural purr of greeting from the depths of his throat, discarding Lau's body between them as he pulled himself to his feet that she truly realized who stood before her. It was Harvey's murderer she was facing—and, in a way, her own.

The bottomless eyes watched her with pure pleasure as she mirrored his gaze, echoed by the suddenly shrill, high-pitched laughter from his heavily scarred, cracked orifice. It wasn't even a mouth, couldn't even merit to be compared to one in its gashed, inhuman leer, the stitching constantly crackling as if it would give way and gush a downpour of blood without any warning.

"Why helloooooooo, beautiful! Or should I call you _Mrs. Dent_? It seems you're a little late for our date, and I've been _expecting_ you."

Rachel gasped at the man's shameless, crooning mockery, her fingers clutching the pistol tight and pointing the weapon straight at him,

"Shut up!"

The Joker's eyes widened for a fraction of a second at the weapon that seemingly came from thin air, before scarred lips pulled back from yellow teeth in another shrill, high-pitched cackle of amusement. As he laughed, he kicked the dead body at his feet carelessly to the side like a heap of unwanted garbage, before beginning to walk coolly forward towards her, as if she were not harboring a weapon and pointing it menacingly towards him.

"Stand back," She cried, her eyes narrowing towards the Joker in dark revulsion. The clown seemed to make a show of contemplating her words, placing his hand beneath his chin and raising his brows, yet then he shook his green mane wildly and grinned,

"No, no, no, no, no…that wouldn't be the right way to entertain my pretty little guest! Besides, are you_ really_ sure you know how to point that thing?"

His voice became lower then, almost a conspiratorial whisper, as he crossed his arms, the grin never fading from his smug, scarred lips,

"Because I think you're _very_ off...shooting me wouldn't kill those responsible, you know."

As he spoke, he began to form a slow circle around the large interrogation room; Rachel moved as well, pulling herself away from him with each step, not wanting to make him think he could get any closer to her.

_He's lying,_ Her mind frantically hissed amidst the sudden confusion, _don't believe him for a second, why should you?_

"You're a liar," Rachel replied with a shaking voice, cocking the weapon in her hands and watching as Joker actually jumped up slightly at the sound,

"Oh, no, _me_?! I'm _anything_ but that! You see, dear Rachel, I'm the most honest guy in Gotham at this very moment, what with...our little white Knight put out of _commission_."

She was quiet; her body seethed with the rage she had felt before, though diluted by a trembling in her breast; something akin to fear, yet not quite. She had never actually shot at someone before, especially not in such a tense situation, and she didn't know if she would be able to aim properly at one of the Joker's vital areas while he was prancing around her in a circle, taunting her with his lies.

_But,_ her mind then contradicted itself darkly, _What if he isn't lying? What if..._

As if able to read her thoughts, he nodded quickly, holding his hands out as if he were an innocent child and hadn't just killed the man lying inert between them. His knife glinted against the fluorescent light, still red and caked with blood, toted as if it were a harmless instrument by the madman,

"You see, Rachel--can I call you Rachel, since Mrs. Dent doesn't really work anymore?—"

She flinched, a cry of mottled rage twisting in her throat, and Joker nodded again, holding his hands out before himself defensively,

"_Rachel._ While you and your, uh...squeeze were out in that life or death situation, I was right here, in my little jail cell, wasting away! _I_ didn't kidnap you or Harvey, how could I when I was _right here_?"

He gestured towards the wide expanse of the room they were in, still nodding in silent encouragement, as if to reinforce his words that seemed to drip with venom in Rachel's eyes, "How could I have possibly been the one to do any sort of harm to you and Harvey, when I don't even have _plans_?"

"It doesn't _matter_!" She retaliated, her voice an angry cry, yet shakier than she had wanted it to be, "Harvey's _dead_, and they were your men, don't try to play your games with _me_!"

"Oh, but I'm not playing any games, I promise you," He replied smoothly, a giggle at the edge of his words, his face cocked to the side as if he were an innocent boy, "If I were here, I couldn't have given any orders out to anyone. Gordon and his...ah, _men_," He gestured outside, towards what Rachel had seen to be the rows of mangled bodies, "Made _sure _of that. Morrone's men were the ones to go after your Harvey, and they were the ones to wire him to the explosives, while you two exchanged vows of love and comfort before your final moments toge—"

"Shut _up_!" Her voice was so loud her own ears rang with the ferocity of it; the Joker jumped backwards in mock surprise, before chuckling again, grabbing at his sides, "You always _were _feisty, beautiful, and that's what I've liked about you. You see, _I'm _not surprised you were the one to pull through this and come after me with a gun, when I could easily take your cute little pistol out of your hands and carve you up like a pumpkin within seconds if I wanted to,"

His mouth curled into a sinister leer, then, and the savage amusement in Joker's eyes at his words chilled Rachel's spine,

"But _I like_ you. I've been watching you, trying to...figure out exactly what it is that attracts the two most powerful men in Gotham to _you_, and I found the predicament...irresistible, myself. You're not nearly as strong as you pretend to be, and that strikes me as incredibly funny! Why a girl like you, a beautiful girl, Harvey's squeeze, Batman's little object of desire…would still take on a job as ugly as D.A. assistant, and risk her life enforcing stupid little morals and high values and 'putting the bad guys away'…well, it doesn't make any sense! It's _crazy_ business, the way you people work, thinking you can lock away every corrupted person in Gotham when we're all corrupted, even the people you trust the most, when even your little Batman turns his tail on you after finally seeing you as what you _are,_ and that's _bait_—"

Rachel's fingers trembled on the trigger, her eyes sharp with tears of anger. What she would give to lunge at this man right now, to tear at him with nail and limb and every part of her body, to shoot him full of bullet holes and never look back. What she would give to wipe off that damned smirk on his face, to make sense of his little attempt at psychiatrist analysis in the face of potential death.

_But vengeance doesn't equal justice…what do I want from this? From hurting him? Think, get a hold of yourself, get a hold of your _logic!

"Batman's a better man than you or Morrone," She interjected, her voice trembling, "And he's coming right now to help me, and to put you where you belong!"

Another howling cackle, and he leered at her again, his black eyes seeming to bore straight into her soul, the red smile genuine beneath the scars and lipstick,

"Is that what you _really_ think?"

Rachel gasped. During their tense circling across the room, the Joker had managed to come dangerously close towards the heavy door that closed the interrogation room. He could slip right through if he wanted to, and she would have to chase him, would have to fire at him as best as she could...she didn't know if she could even get a shot at him from his distance. Her mind numbed and her breath cursed violently at the realization, and he turned around and gazed at the door in mock surprise and then, chuckling, shook his head.

"_I_ know you think I'm a coward, but...I assure you, I'm not. I'd prefer to take this little encounter...head-on."

As he said this, he turned with surprising, almost feline agility and twisted the door shut, wrenching the nearest chair beneath the handle. Rachel's heart lurched sickeningly against her chest despite herself, as her situation just grew more urgent, a little more hopeless. A giggle bubbling in the depths of his throat, the Joker licked his lips and hovered towards her, so close that her heart leapt again in her body, pumped quickly with heated adrenaline. She raised the gun again, backing up so that he was always a good few inches away from her, yet soon enough her back hit against the surface of the metal table behind her, and she winced at the pain of its slightly sharp edge against her body. If she turned towards the table's side in an effort to get further away, she didn't know what he was capable of doing the moment she turned her head. He could kill her with one swipe of his knife at this point, break her artery within less than a breath's heightened panic, reducing her to a peaceful slumber…

The thought was almost grimly tempting, and her lip curled in disgust at her own mind's yearning.

"Now that we're a bit more…intimate," The Joker whispered, his hot, rancid breath filling her nostrils and almost overpowering her as he hovered menacingly close—too close for comfort, for anything but panic—"I'd like to seriously apologize for the loss of your, ah…loved one. Gotham won't be able to stand on its two feet anymore, will it? All the people who thought they were strong, that they were powerful, will crumble…and chaos will reign. And all because Batman messed up his priorities—if anyone is to blame, _blame it on the Bat!"_

His voice was suddenly an octave higher as he practically screamed the last of the sentence; Rachel pressed herself back against the table's sharp, dagger-like surface, her back curling inward, glaring at his chuckling, hysterical face, the face caked with war paint, so savage and inhuman in all its scarred mirth. All this _monster_ did was laugh at her pain, at her confusion, with his black hole of a mocking mouth devouring any remote humanity around him, until everything bled like his scars, until everything was irreparable. This man was one of those men that she realized could never be bargained with, even after having told Bruce once a long, long time ago that everyone was a good person, everyone deserved their own justice.

Maybe the man before her didn't even count as a human being. And maybe the revulsion curling in her throat, throbbing in her head and heart and hands, was the only right thing to feel. Did the Joker deserve humanity? Harvey had deserved it, hadn't he? And look where he was now…

"Why do you keep _saying_ that?!" She finally replied in rising ire, the gun shaking ferociously in her hands, her teeth clenching in vicious restraint not to force a bullet straight through this man's skull.

The Joker gazed at her finger upon the trigger, his eyes narrowed with an almost smug grin upon his features. The makeup was caked and smearing across the lower half of his face, patches of flesh-

colored skin contrasting sharply with chalk-white. Yet he still seemed so irrevocably _inhuman_, nothing more than an animal in his movements, in the casual flick of his tongue across his lips, in the way in which he relentlessly played with her.

_He's the cat with blood-stained teeth…and I'm always the mouse._

Her lips tightened and she kept her eyes narrowed as he watched her, gazing straight at her resolute face, as if admiring some pretty object with appraising eyes,

"I'm only telling the truth, beautiful. Batman caused Harvey's death, more than anyone could have. You see…Batman didn't mean to come help you that night. Don't you see the _guilt_ in his eyes whenever he tries to look at you, beside all that…manly, disgusting lust? The powerful always go for the powerful in this city, always…_eat_ the weaker of the prey, and this was no exception. You see…"

As he spoke, he almost casually pulled himself across the other half of the table near where Rachel had been standing, sitting upon the glossy surface as if he were dictating something as frivolous as the weather,

"Morrone's men…when they kidnapped you two. They, ah…_switched_ the addresses in which you lovebirds were located. Batman had to make his choice, and, originally, he didn't choose _you_ to save!" Another high-pitched giggle from his lips as he uttered the horrific truth, and Rachel actually fought the urge to pull her hands over her ears, as she pushed herself forcefully to the side, away from the monster's towering frame. Defiantly, he scooted towards her, black-ringed eyes gleaming their self-righteousness as he spoke, apathetic as to how the words stung,

"Batman chose _power_ over love…over your worth. Apparently, you weren't worth anything at all to Gotham's, ah…survival. You weren't nearly as important as your little husband-to-be, at least, not in _Batman's_ eyes. No, he wanted to make sure he was able to wring the neck of every criminal instead of saving his dearest friend. And, even to me, that's hurtful! To be honest…"

He leaned even closer, the black abyss of his irises as if she were staring into two bottomless holes,

"When I heard, I expected him to go to save _you_! Of course, then he would have _really _saved Harvey, and maybe he wouldn't have been as guilty, knowing that Gotham would be okay, and you, the little…lover of two, would have been gone, like the pawn you always were—"

"_Stop it!_"

Without even thinking, Rachel pressed the gun straight against the Joker's forehead. For an instant, bewilderment etched its way across his savage features; then he cackled again giddy and erratic, nearly doubling over with laughter too intense for his thin frame. The girl kept the gun steady, her body tensed with the disturbed shock that always accompanied the peal of laughter after any tense or painful situation the bastard encountered—had she ever seen a criminal like this, who took the most horrific of human emotions, fear and pain, and twisted them into pure mirth?

Did he fear _anything?_

"Oh, I _love_ this, I love this _so_ much! I'm so _glad_ you were the one to come through, after all, because this is just too much fun! I would have never thought you'd come after me, with the intent to _kill_ me…when even the Batman himself doesn't even _kill_. Maybe we're more, ah…made for one another than you once thought, Rachel, thinking you were better than all the criminals you've helped Dent put to jail, thinking you got some sort of self-worth and satisfaction from all of it, hmm? But to know now that Batman would have betrayed you, that your closest associates are working for _Morrone_…how does it feel to have no one to trust, not even _yourself_ any longer? When you wish you were the one to have died in place of _poor Harvey!"_

Her fingers were shaking so violently then that the entire gun itself trembled erratically against Joker's forehead. How easily she could penetrate his skin, now, could put a bullet through his flesh and end it all. How quickly she could end the horrific laughter, bring his taunting to silence within minutes, avenge Harvey and put Gotham's threat and the source of all her recent nightmares to oblivion...

_But he's not directly responsible for Harvey's death, is he? You would kill a guilty man for justice, but not guilty for the crime you wanted to avenge..._

_What's the difference between vengeance and justice? What did I say to Bruce before, when his parents were killed? _

What had happened to those values of self-righteousness? To order? To her sense of justice?

He was staring at her as always, the black eyes boring into her, violating her more forcefully than any physical touch. Rachel could feel his hot breath on her neck, her cheek, as she contemplated just how killing the monster would feel at that moment, as she _yearned_ for it. Her eyes narrowed as she gazed up defiantly at his own, and she saw in his only the empty, lusting smirk of a predator, fueled by pure instinct and carnal thirst. He thirsted for blood; he thirsted for flesh--that was all that moved him, all that could ever move him. What were years of criminal analysis and 

sympathy for all when it came to this…_thing?_ What human rule applied to him, besides her own goddamned desire to put him to justice?

She wanted to spit at him, she wanted to lunge and hurt him for hurting Harvey, she wanted to shoot—God, how she _ached_ to shoot!

_Harvey wouldn't do this if I had died. Harvey would have remained strong…Harvey would have known how to move on. Harvey…_

"Yes," She murmured quietly, so quietly it would have gone unheard by anyone but the monster before her.

"Oh?" The man's brows rose against his painted face as he cupped his ear, straining to hear, pressing his forehead even harder against the tip of her pistol, "What was that?"

"I should have died instead of Harvey," She replied, uncaring that she was revealing such thoughts to the Joker, as she was sure at that moment she _would_ pull the trigger, every fabric in her being wanting this retribution to quell the horrible, aching _pain_ inside of her,

"Everyone knows that. But maybe killing you will put the balance back? Maybe it will bring justice? With the main defender of Gotham gone, and the main source of Gotham's destruction gone..."

A wide, twisted smile played from ear-to-ear across the clown's face as he nodded, chuckling with a hardened tone to his voice, like a rabid, snarling dog, the stitches rippling with scarlet skin in a beast's bloodied leer.

"_Now _you're seeing things the way they really are. It's not about order, beautiful, it's about chaos...it's about _anarchy_. I don't make plans, I ruin them, I chase things and destroy them...like a _dog!_ And the _only_ people who can make it in Gotham are the ones that destroy. This city is a cesspool, a breeding ground for the corrupt and the damned. And the only way to rule this place, the only absolute, is chaos. So..."

He repositioned her gun tip, pressing it into his scarred mouth, grinning as it settled against the inside of his cheek. Rachel's heart pumped with both toxic dread and horrific desire; she couldn't think besides the horrible surge of adrenaline, the sickening urge to pull, to end, to destroy. And the source, 

the lone object of all of her anger and hatred and pain all these never-ending, fear-stricken days was standing before her, offering her a chance to rid the world of him.

"Do it," He purred demurely against the muffled tone of his gun-filled mouth, "Do what you've come here to do, what you've wanted to do all along. Upset the established order. Don't be so  
self-sacrificing...take what you _want._ _Kill me._ "

She tensed, her fingers heavy on the trigger. Just one squeeze...that's it...her gun was cocked, she could look away...she shut her eyes tight, feeling the weight of his jaw pressing heavily  
against Harvey's pistol. _Harvey's_ pistol. What a fitting end.  


"Do it," He hissed almost impatiently, a chuckle bubbling from deep within him, rippling across the weapon in its gruesomely amused strength, "Do it, come on, _come on_, kill me...kill me, _KILL ME_!"

As her fingers acted, her eyes shut tight—and a face, an all-too familiar, all too painfully real face became the dominant image in her mind—a blonde, smiling face, with kind eyes and a strong, reassuring smile…the skin suddenly trickling, oozing down across the thick bones like liquid, the muscles and tissues exposed, torn away layer by layer into burning, bleeding pustules and ash and dust, the eyes the last distinguishable thing as the jaw bone disconnected, covered entirely in flame, the fire eating away at the thick strands of hair, eating away at every remaining distinguishable feature—the ears, the nose, the cheeks, eating and eating until there was nothing at all but burnt black bone and ashy remnants and crawling maggots, and _stop it, stop it, stop it, stop hurting the man I love—_

_Harvey!_

She pulled the trigger.

The bullet pierced the air like a knife through butter, quick as a blur—

Yet it landed in thick, black armor, no trace of the monstrous flesh it had been so close to hitting, to killing, to ending. Black eyes stared down at her, eyes so much like those that had just bored into her with merciless insanity. But Batman was there, Batman was clutching with brute force at the gun in her hands, pulling it forcefully from her grip as if _she_ were the criminal, sending it clattering upon the ground, as useless now as Lau's dead, frigid body it had pressed itself against in its descent. She fell to her knees, then, unable to comprehend what had just happened—gazing up at the black figure before her, her eyes straining to see behind him, to see any remaining sign of the monster who had seemingly disappeared right into thin air…

"The Joker fled as soon as I arrived—you fainted, and he was _dragging_ you across the floor, laughing…"

The raspy, phony voice was apathetic as ever around the wave of policemen that engulfed them in a sea of spiraling blue, yet she could sense the horror in his voice, the powerlessness of perhaps having one day come too late. Yet she couldn't think; her breath was ragged, her body was trembling, all she could think of was how _close_ she had been, how incredibly _close_…

"Take me home, Bruce," She whispered, so low even the Batman strained to her hear, "Just take me _home._ I don't want to hear it, just let me _rest_."

The black figure hesitated; then, slowly, the stiff head nodded once, twice. Strong hands pulled her up by her arm, and she walked herself towards the door, ignoring the questions that piled themselves upon her in torrents from the policemen who had noticed her, her mind throbbing viciously and painfully with the taxing encounter she had just survived through.

_Survived? _

She hadn't been a victim, at least, not while conscious; _she_ had been the attacker, the assaulter, _she_ had been the one to threaten, to nearly kill—yet Batman still held her in his tight grip just outside of the building, disappearing with her into the blackness of nightfall. Batman still placed her securely in her apartment room, through the unlocked window, watching her resolutely with his masked face as she double checked the deadbolt and pulled herself quietly into her bed sheets, seeking refuge even from his prying eyes.

Maybe vigilantes were self-justified. Maybe they were never criminals because they never _saw_ themselves as such. But the police wanted the Batman. The police wanted the Joker.

_What was the difference between justice and vengeance?_

Her body hurt beneath the sheets, felt abused and hot and crooked. She pulled off layers of restrictive clothing, too fitful to care for a shower for one night, to mind the fact that her clothing was strewn across the floor with case files and papers and other assorted personal items. As Rachel struggled to fight herself into a fitful sleep, she didn't see the card slide from the discarded pocket of her slacks. The image of a doubled-over black Joker leered from its papery surface as she forced her eyes shut, covered with bloodied, sloppy scrawl:

_Murderer._

* * *

Woo! Gosh, that encounter felt good to write…and awfully abrupt, as well. I was thinking of a million different ways to end the little talk between the Joker and Rachel (first of many, of course…) but I decided to get Batman involved as the other version ran a bit too long for comfort, even with our favoriteeee Joker! haha…well, I'm glad I introduced him in here, as brief as it seemed (even though he made up the entire chapter!) because I can progress with the storyline and make things much more interesting from here-on. I'm so excited to write Chapter 3! Ahh!

Yes, I did end up borrowing some of the Joker's speech to Harvey post-disfiguration because…well, it was just too _Joker_ to leave out, and I think it's integral to his character, the mad dog metaphor and whatnot. I can't leave him improperly characterized, even in his relentless mental torture of others…(poor Rachel.)

And thanks again SO MUCH to my reviewers! I was so glad with the reviews I've gotten already from Chapter One, and that people are actually reading and enjoying this so far…it's because of all of you that I continue any of my fanfics, ever. So keep 'em coming ; I ALWAYS love to know what you all think, and what you'd like to happen…(though I can't guarantee it'll end up that way either.)

Well, until Chapter 3!


	3. Three: Confrontation

(Extremely long) Author's Notes:

Hey, all my lovely amazing readers  Thanks to EVERYONE for the latest reviews and alerts and faves…it encourages me beyond nothing else to know that you're all enjoying my fanfic and the way it's going so far. I have a horrible tendency to start fanfics (like this one) on a whim, and have no idea where I'm going to go with it until the end, or if I'm going to stick with it at all. I would really hate to abandon Dark Humor anytime soon, so I went ahead and took my time to make an outline of all the major plot points to come and I think the updates will come at a solid pace because of it (my first fanfic outline ever, so be proud, because I am..haha). I'm generally really an unorganized person  That's just habit, I guess, haha.

ALSO: Sorry if the ending of the last Chapter confused anyone! Let me clarify it here instead of individual reviews (but I'm going to mention it again anyway) because it was vaguely written and I might rewrite it to have it make sense…but the Joker's goading Rachel into killing him was so intense along with her recent trauma from Harvey, Rachel ended up fainting for a minute or two, seeing the image of Harvey dying in her mind. She then woke up, still thinking she was facing the Joker and shooting at Batman instead who had arrived. It's confusing because I wanted to keep it in her perspective since she wouldn't really realize she had fainted in the first place; BUT I will go back and rewrite it if you all feel it needs further clarification just so it makes sense.

I just watched Batman Begins Sunday night! It's REALLY going to help a lot with my characterization of Rachel and even Bruce (with what little time he gets being second to Joker in this fanfic and all…) and I think I'll have to make her even stronger than I did before to make her really true to the movie character…although I prefer the Dark Knight (and, personally, Maggie Gyllenhaal to Katie Holmes as an actress, but that's just my opinion), I feel like they didn't really give much screen time to Rachel in regards to portraying her character as strongly as in Batman Begins. But then again, they had the Joker in the second, who was greedy and stole all the attention anyways…not that we mind that ;

A minor gripe for the first movie was that I thought they didn't give Scarecrow much strength : I liked him, but he went down really easily…I guess he wasn't the main villain in the first place though. Still…I need to go hunting for some decent Scarecrow fics to balance it out I guess. Hehe.

Needless to say, the first movie really inspired me, especially with this fanfic's theme of vengeance vs. justice…I'm really, really glad I watched it because I think I can make this fanfic much more solid and better quality/characterization for everyone reading and my own insanely high standards ; Honestly, as a writer, I have the bad habit of suffering through trying to make each chapter as good or better than the one before it, so sometimes I can be REALLY late with updates because I'm picking apart every sentence and tweaking/erasing large amounts of typed text because I feel it isn't really good enough or doesn't do what I want it to do. It really sucks…and I'm sure a lot of other people know what I'm talking about and have the same problem. So I'm REALLY glad for the inspiration I just got and REALLY genuinely glad that I have all the reviews and encouragement from people to keep me going even when I hit writer's block (over and over again…)

ANYWAYS, enough of my babbling…!

Individual thank-you's and replies:

OpenSoulSurgery: Thank you! : I'm glad you like the way I portray Rachel so far, I wasn't quite sure I did it justice, but it makes me happy to know you think so!

Kits-bunni: Thank you so much, you are too sweet…and yes, I HATE the fangirl syndrome (nice name for it by the way haha) that messes up potentially good stories…no matter how much we are batshit (pun intended?) crazy for the Joker. ; Don't worry, I'm just as much of a frothing fangirl as you are! I'm so glad you like the characterization :D

Kendra Luehr: It makes me giddy that you were giddy! :D Thanks so much, I'm glad you could envision everything…it's really weird when the stuff you write turns out like that, because your fanfiction is really easy to envision as well. And I was mulling over a lot of different ways to wrap that chapter up, but I decided having Batman come in because we NEED to give him SOME action in the fanfic since it's a "Batman" story technically…(I guess pout) Now why couldn't it just be called "Joker" instead? ;

Shiann Reece: Thank you so much! : Your wows make me so happy lol…I really hope I just keep doing the fanfic justice for you!

Xheartxcorex: Thank you! Yes, I agree, that part does seem like something Joker would do, I'm most proud of that part in the entire chapter actually lol, I'm glad you singled it out because it's my favorite part! : And yes, we all know the Joker can be such a bastard sometimes…but if he wasn't, would we love him as much? ;x

MizzStarlight: Thank you so very much, I'm glad to know your jaw dropped, hehe. I'm sorry about the confusingness of the last chapter…again, if you think it's not properly explained here or it just hinders the story in general, let me know and I'll rewrite that part. Thanks again for your advice.

OKAY, extremely long author notes aside…here's Chapter 3! As always, please please review and tell me what you think…and ENJOY! :

Love you all.

* * *

**Dark Humor**

**Three**

_Justice is balance._

_--Ra's Al Ghul_

* * *

Morning came, a bleeding womb against the horizon of Gotham, penetrating Rachel's eyelids with its pulsing, silent scream and beckoning her into reality.

Morning in Gotham was always a blessing and a curse. A blessing for its people, because the criminals and fear-mongering crooked emptied the streets for a chance to live a fearless day; a curse, because those very same people were doomed to repeat the cycle another day. It wasn't the same for her, though—it was never the same, now that Harvey was gone. Rachel didn't have fear anymore, that same mortal fear that accompanied the feeling of weakness when overshadowed by one's enemy; she had emptiness, she had desperation.

Anger was stronger than fear. And sometimes, anger could eradicate it completely.

It was the first emotion that filled her as she woke up; mainly because, despite the grogginess and the temporary peaceful null that had invaded her mind in her dreamless slumber, she came to a rude awakening. Stretching sore muscles nimbly against her creaking mattress, she pulled herself to sitting position and groaned slightly as she readjusted the jagged-toothed blinds that assaulted her with rays of dawn's burning light to shut completely again, rendering her room a dim cradle of comfort, if just for a few minutes more.

She smoothed back her disheveled locks, feeling a bit dirty now that her mind was cleared from the other night's panic that she hadn't taken her nightly shower. As the girl hoisted herself from her creaking bed, with its groan of protest mirroring her own, she hopped surprisingly nimbly towards her bathroom, lathering and scrubbing and cleaning away as much of the week's filth and grime and sickness as she could. Rachel spent a long hour against the penetrating heat of the shower as it poured upon her bare skin, rubbing the soap so forcefully against her porcelain flesh that it caused her pain, her limbs pink and softened and nearly bruised when she was finished with her savage routine and reduced the scalding water to a lazy drip. No doubt a few bruises would form upon her delicate frame; she welcomed it, really, because she felt much, much cleaner now she had washed away any trace of the recent past.

Surveying her raw fingers quickly as she threw a towel about her slight frame and went to scour her closet for a black ensemble, Rachel was satisfied to see her turned palms a bright, beet red—not from blood, but from innocence, from purity. She almost felt completely clean, as if she had never imagined them just as red with another's blood.

_Almost._

Satisfied with a simple black knee-length dress and heels, Rachel watched herself briefly in the mirror, at the reflection she had not seen since the incidents that had passed. Harvey's funeral was today—yet as she gazed at her own image, she felt as if they had missed another corpse in all the District Attorney's importance. She had gotten thinner these past few days—her cheeks were sunken, her eyes thick with bags that carried the weight of what she had just suffered through, her exposed collarbones sharp and laced with an age that did not come with physical passing, but the anguish and wearing of the mind. She still _looked_ substantially the same, of course; no bruises or scars on her face, no burn marks to mar her delicate, easy breakable skin, nothing to show the telltale signs of loss, assault, nearly dying countless times within a devastatingly short time frame.

But who needed telltale signs when the most vital were in the most important part of her body itself—her mind?

For an instant, she envisioned herself as Harvey would have been, her face mangled and disfigured beyond recognition; muscles exposed and ugly in their burnt, oozing hideousness, bleeding red and purple and puss across the garbled flesh, the protruding bones from beneath the singed black layers of skin that were once so pristine and _pretty_, sharp and almost monstrous as they stuck from her cheeks, her arms, her constantly smiling, burned away face—

_Let's put a smile on that face!_

_Harvey Dent will always smile, now._

"_No!_" She hissed, and before she knew it she was doubled over, clutching at her bent body as if something had impaled her, sharp and relentless, straight through the chest to her heart.

Rachel forcefully straightened her scrunched-up face, the unmistakable fear in her eyes that had never died away from the days prior. She wouldn't harbor that fear anymore—she _couldn't_. She would bury it. She would destroy it, just as everything dear to her had been destroyed. It was time to move on. It was time for Gotham to move on.

With a last, apathetic stare into the gleaming mirror, Rachel turned on her heel and began to clean the mess upon her floor, strewn carelessly across the carpet—across her conscience. Layers of clothing and files she smoothed and separated, discarding the former for cleaning, the latter for the soon-to-be newly rebuilt headquarters. It was an empty distraction, for a few solid minutes of drowning out the world—bringing back the humdrum order of placement, logic, organization.

Then she found the curled playing card that nearly formed a paper-cut along her trembling hand.

_Murderer._

With a sudden, shuddering gasp, her eyes widened at the single accusing word—jaggedly written, its scarlet, caked appearance obviously the product of dried blood. The Joker leered at her from its black-faced portrait, inanimate, unmoving, _inhuman._ Bile tickled her throat and the haze of remaining fatigue upon her body seemed to melt away, replacing itself with the dormant anger she had momentarily been able to fight down with the normalcy of her morning routine.

_Normalcy. What a fleeting fantasy._

But no…she couldn't let this get to her. She just _couldn't._ Sharp tears pricked at the corner of her eyes, her emotions spilling to life through the medium of her stunned body. She wiped them away with so much force her eyes felt raw as she rubbed them, flicking the card against the tabletop and fumbling angrily across the floor, to her kitchen countertop, through the disheveled cabinets for an ashtray.

Pulling a lighter in tow, she threw the ashtray down so forcefully her shaking hands nearly chipped at the delicate glass, and thrust the card rapidly against the tray's hollow surface.

Without a second thought, she flipped the lighter on and set the corner of the card on fire, watching it curl up as the flames spread to lick its dirtied surface, strong and hungry and devouring. A sick pleasure bubbled within her as she watched the Joker's face alight with flames, black and crisp and melting away as the entire card slowly burned, slowly yet surely curled in on itself like a withering leaf.

_Burning, just like Harvey burned._

She watched the Joker burn into nothing on the papery surface, and for a quick moment, her aching heart soared.

It was then that the doorbell rang.

As Rachel watched the lower half of the card begin to slowly dissolve into an ashy nothingness, the ringing continued, loud and shrill and demanding. Her eyes widened as she heard the familiar voice outside her apartment door, wrought with what could only be worry—a constant tone of voice whenever he spoke to her now, it seemed. Bruce was practically pounding on the door, now, and Rachel noticed the sharp, almost overpowering smell of smoke coming from her tray was enough to pervade the doorway and attract the attention of others.

_Fuck._

"Bruce?!"

"Rachel! Rachel, what's happening?"

"Ah—nothing, nothing! I was just…um…smoking…"

She winced at her excuse, having never picked up a cigarette in her short years of life and finding it a poor thing to say in her defense. Quickly, she pulled herself to her feet and threw the ashtray off the table, watching with a silent curse as it, and the burning card, skidded to the floor to shatter and ignite a corner of her carpet in miniature flames. Rachel stomped out the remainders of the fire with her heel, yet the broken glass covered the now ugly black mark that charred her white carpet. She winced as the pounding continued.

"Okay, okay! I'm coming!"

Practically running to her door for fear it would collapse, Rachel threw the bolt aside and leapt out of the way as it flew open, her childhood friend standing on the other end, his eyes hard with panic which he now frantically struggled to cover with the tightest smile he could offer her.

"Since when did you _smoke,_ Rachel? Even I can't stand the stuff."

Rachel mirrored his tight smile with one of her own, though naturally more relaxed. She always thought she had been the more demure and subtle of the two,

"Ever since this week turned into a living hell and insisted I be the constant plaything of the Devil himself, that's when. What brings you to my apartment?"

Still standing in the doorway, the unmasked vigilante stood still for a moment, holding out his hands and furrowing his thick brows incredulously,

"What, and you aren't even going to invite me in to sit down? Coffee, even?"

Despite the recent emotional turbulence her body had been subjugated to, Rachel still found it difficult to fight back a grin. She forcefully blocked out the memories of the night before as she gazed up at Bruce's familiar, comforting frame, numbing her pain away with their timeless banter,

"You know I don't have my very own Alfred installed here. I make even instant inedible…you should know, after all, you've tried it before."

As she walked across the room, motioning for him to sit at the kitchen table, Bruce nodded in silent agreement, a grin playing on his own lips which she saw from her corner of her eye. She skirted the table with carefully concealed skittishness, hoping he wouldn't notice the very recent char marks against her once immaculate carpet—yet he did anyway, God damn him and his microscopic vision.

"Since when did you add the interpretive glass sculpture over there?" He asked smoothly, pointing at the broken remnants of the ashtray, "Or did you not know how to properly extinguish your first cigarette?"

Rachel bit her lip. She pulled herself dismissively into a seat, resting her weary head on her hands, elbows grinding against the surface of the table,

"It was an accident. You startled me when you were pounding on the door like a madman at approximately eight thirty in the morning, you know."

This was enough to draw the billionaire's prying eyes from the charred card to her own, his gaze creased with remorse,

"You had me worried for a second when you weren't answering. I…I've been worrying a lot lately, you know that."

Rachel studied him for a moment, surveying the hardened man that was the mirror image of her once-childhood friend and love. She gazed at his statuesque frame, his dark eyes set so perfectly within the sockets that they, too, would have appeared emotionless, frigid, if it weren't for the constant burning sentiments that always gushed out at her whenever he gazed straight at her own eyes. There was no doubt at all that he still harbored feelings for her, though all hers had dwindled, died out as soon as 

Harvey had. And so she found she couldn't blame him for all the troubles_ she_ had caused him in living, after all, and the ensuing bitterness of the situation made her sigh and pat the nearby chair to invite him to take a seat.

"It's been a long, long week, Bruce. Believe _me_…I know all too well now how much Gotham and its people can worry."

Bruce nodded at her words, sitting obligingly near her hunched frame, his eyes desperately piercing her own again that heavy morning. It was funny how in the daylight Rachel could see nothing of Batman in that gaze—no familiar hardness, no extreme apathy to the point of being cold and cruel. It was only in his poise, in his practiced, stiff posture, that the true inert, hardened nature of the Batman was evident without the mask and the night to guard him, shift him like clay into a vicious, intimidating creature. She could see, for once, how his criminals, how everyday people would be capable of fearing him…yet for her to have such fear was in itself completely impossible. Especially with the undiluted caring in his eyes as she saw them now.

"Rachel. Are you…"

Bruce shifted almost uncomfortably in his seat, then, his frigid body coming for a moment to life as he fought for the words,

"…Are you alright? Really? This week has been so much to handle, especially for you. And with the likelihood that you'll be the head D.A. now, having been second-best…"

Rachel cut off his words, then, feeling the vicious urge to bite back any attempted reference by Bruce to Harvey. She didn't want that ache in her heart right now; she didn't want that dormant pain to rattle her nerves. Not yet.

"Bruce, it's okay. I've got my sleep, my rest…and we all go on, as does Gotham. The funeral's this evening; after all of it, after everything's wrapped up and over with…I'll be okay, too. I have to _be_ Gotham now, don't I, now that I'll probably be D.A.? I have to be in touch with it, I have to be…a little more like Batman. So I can't let these emotions get the best of me, right?"

As she spoke, her voice gave more guilelessness to her words than her actual thoughts. She doubted she could ever heal from the events that had scarred her beyond repair; disfigured her, just as the Joker's leering, hideously torn grin, looking back at her even now when she struggled to have a normal conversation with her not-so-normal friend. Forcefully, she gazed into Bruce's eyes as he contemplated her words, seeming to try and analyze her with his own iron stare as if to see the truth within her soul, as if convinced that she was more hurt than she let on…which he would be completely right in thinking, anyway.

"Batman's only human, Rachel. And so are you. So was…"

He tensed, correcting himself before he could emit the blow,

"…So were all the other D.A.s before you. We're all humans trying to fight the ideal of crime. But that doesn't mean that we can just let ourselves get hurt and not confide in anyone. That we can just…walk away, crippled, and let no one help us while we recover."

Rachel fought the urge to roll her eyes as her frustration grew. For a horrifying moment, the anger rose within her again; but not for the Joker himself, but towards Bruce, towards _Batman_—_why should he care when he wanted me dead in the first place? Why does he treat me like this, when he intended to leave me there to explode like—like…_

"_Bait."_

The voice in her mind, the high-pitched squeal hissed as if haunting her, possessing her. She squeezed her lids shut and gave a deep, shuddering groan; one that she was sure would come off to Bruce as annoyance, exasperation.

"Listen, Bruce…"

Rachel gazed down at the glossy tabletop, watching her eyes in its pristine surface. They looked so heavy, so weighed down and worn…had she always looked this way, worn by work, weighed down by Gotham's troubles? When did it begin to take its toll on her? When would people notice her burden, want to label her as weak?

She shifted her fingers, watched them twitch against the tabletop unsteadily as they knitted together, broke apart, drummed across the table's surface,

"I know you think I'm weaker than the rest. Because…because we were friends for so long. You can see all my flaws; you can see all my setbacks. But from now on you have to see _me_ as an associate, as someone like Harvey was, as Batman's friend as well as your own. We have to work together to ensure Gotham is safe, and no matter how much anything may hurt me, you have to let me stand on my own two feet for once."

She raised her head and met his gaze again, sucking in a deep breath to meet his unconvinced expression; his brows still knitted, his lips taut in a hard line against his stone-like face.

"Rachel, what did the Joker do to you last night?"

The unexpected question caught her off guard; she felt her eyes widen automatically, her hands dropping from the counter to fiddle distractedly across her lap, soothe her suddenly frayed nerves. Everything grew tense, then; her breath hitched, her body uncomfortably taut against her seat.

"He…he didn't do anything," She replied, keeping her voice as level and honest as it could possibly sound, because that part _was_ true in a way, "We just…we just talked."

She knew as she spoke that he would be unconvinced. The vigilante didn't disappoint; he raised a brow, crossing his arms before his chest in what she knew to be his defensive posture,

"Talked? Rachel, when I saw you, you had fainted, and you were lying across the floor completely helpless while he was _dragging_ you on the ground, laughing. He attacked you at least. And you had a gun in your hands and nearly shot me when you came to. You should have seen yourself, Rachel…you looked hysterical. You looked…"

_Like the day before, when he scooped me up into his arms instead of Harvey, and I begged him to let me go and burn and die instead._

As she mentally finished his words, her stomach twisted at the memory. Rachel found herself staring at Bruce's form, lowered in a heavy tangle of thoughts, wondering what he could possibly be thinking at this point in their uncomfortable conversation. He was worried for her, of course, but at the same time she wondered if he still felt that gnawing, pervading guilt that nipped at her heels, threatened to devour her if she wanted for one moment to forget, to push it aside—the guilt that came with his failure to save Harvey, having brought her out of the building instead. And then he had nearly come too late again, when she had encountered the Joker…

_But would he care if the Joker had somehow ended up turning my gun on me last night, and taking my life? Would he relish the balance, knowing that I was gone as well as Harvey, and he failed to save both lives instead of sacrificing one for the other? _

Her mind rushed through the dark, pervading thoughts with reckless abandon, careless as to how it pierced and struck her heart, caused her chest to swell and ache. Bruce could be wishing she had died at that very moment, and she would never know—he could be wishing Gotham was still stronger with Harvey's survival, just as the Joker had told her, just as he had reasoned with her the night before—

_No. Shut up! The man's crazy, he was trying to manipulate you into thinking this way. And here you are, letting him win. Don't let him _win_!_

She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood as she pushed her thoughts away for her friend's sake. Rachel brought her hand against Bruce's again—still cold, yet heated by the warmth of his strong, firm skin. The heavy eyes looked up at hers, and she could see the weariness in them, the fatigue beyond sleeplessness that only the Batman himself could suffer.

"Bruce. We got through it, okay? We made it through the night, and it's another day. I…I don't remember what happened after I pointed the gun at him, and I don't want to. I want to move on. I want…"

She turned her head away, keeping the thought only in her head rather than foolishly spilling from her lips.

_Vengeance. Justice. Retribution._

"…a new beginning. I was hysterical last night, yes, and I wasn't thinking when I barged in and saw him, I was just…angry. But it's gone now, it's okay. We made it out fine, and now we can fix everything."

Bruce watched her with a strange new emotion behind his black irises; Rachel couldn't quite read it, yet as he nodded slightly, she saw the gleam and realized it was the strangeness of recognition, as if he had truly seen her for the first time after years upon years of friendship.

"Do you remember…when we were younger, and Chill was shot?"

His gaze was unfaltering, adamant. She swallowed the lump in her throat as she felt him stare with such solid desperation it was as if they were in the interrogation room; her, the criminal, him the relentless questioner. Without another moment's hesitation, she nodded in response, wanting him to stop, to stop making such stupid, foolish comparisons to his own life, to his own past.

"Do you remember what you told me, when we were in the car together, and you…you slapped me when I showed you my own pistol, after wanting to have shot him out of vengeance?"

She nodded again, sudden anger blooming in her veins at his continued comparison of the two of them. Rachel had been younger, hadn't lived through the death of the man she had no doubt in her mind she had truly _loved_—what had she known about vengeance, then; let alone loss, grief, anger? She was a young D.A. all those years ago, naïve and stupid, driven by ideals that had burned days ago and collapsed in on themselves in the aftermath of devastation. Her throat burned as she swallowed, pushing back the outrage that balled like a solid mass within her.

"What did you say then?"

Bruce asked her after what seemed to be a long pause, having been made short by her own turbulent thoughts. Her eyes met his and she prayed he was shielded from the searing, terrifying rage within her. She licked her suddenly dry lips quickly, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear,

"I…I said that justice was about harmony. I said revenge was selfish, only about making yourself feel better. That our system was…impartial."

The words burned as they slid from her tongue; for every syllable, for every slur of her lips, she knew them now to be a lie. The system _could_ be corrupt, she had been taught that through years of fighting the mob in desperate court battles, suffering the mob's corruption of the police force, and justice was a twisted notion. Why else would they have to rely on a masked vigilante for the city's welfare? Why else would Harvey have _died_ and left this place defenseless?

Bruce seemed satisfied by her words, a small grin playing on his lips,

"I took what you said to heart. I realized that vengeance was no way to ensure the safety of Gotham and of its people—we needed impartial justice. That's why the Joker's death last night wouldn't have solved anything, Rachel. We need him alive to put on trial and lock away in Arkham, not dead so we would end up on his level. "

Her lip was quivering. She felt it so strongly she knew it was impossible to stop now that Bruce had undoubtedly seen it; squeezing her eyes shut so tightly that multicolored lights danced before her eyes, Rachel buried her face in her hands and drew in a deep, shuddering breath.

"Rachel?" Bruce murmured quietly, his voice almost pleading with her like a silent prayer, "Rachel, what's…"

"So what's going to happen if we don't kill him, hmm?"

Her voice was surprisingly strong, the strongest it had been in a very long time, almost a shout when it came from her previously pursed lips, the black anger kindling within her and ready to burst,

"The Joker escaped before, and with it he left countless bodies in his wake. Are we just going to keep locking him up again and again with him coming back stronger every time? Is the body count going to skyrocket even more? Don't treat me like an _idiot_, Bruce. You wouldn't be lecturing Harvey on the principles of morality if he was still alive, and I'm not a child to be lectured to. I _know_ what it's like to lose someone close to me—to talk to him before he died. And you want us to just sit back and lose more and more people we care about? Is that what you _want_, Bruce?! Because I'm not letting it happen any more!"

She was shouting, then, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, her brain pounding against her skull with the exertion of every word that poured through her lips like fluid acid to sting and burn and damage the man before her. Bruce stared at her with a look that was indescribable; he pulled himself to his feet, straightening his crisp jacket and tie, and after a short, tense silence, began to walk towards the door,

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Rachel. I'm sorry that Batman failed you."

Rachel sat there, inert and still, her lips pursed, immense guilt weighing heavily on her shoulders like lead despite the sickening satisfaction that pulsed inside of her like a living, purring animal. Both fought for control, the living, thriving smugness and heavy, suffocating guilt, so overwhelming at that moment she felt as if she were being torn apart with every passing second. As Bruce pulled the door opened, and began to walk across the threshold from her apartment to the outside world, Rachel felt as if he were tearing himself away from her forever.

"Bruce…" She whispered dryly to the air, yet he slammed the door behind her with such force she doubted he had even heard the silent plea from within her.

oOo

The phone was ringing.

Rachel had drifted at some point in time, had succumbed to a mid-morning nap; she knew this when she pulled herself heavily from the darkness of her couch and felt across the wooden desk nearby for the shrill, leaping cell phone at her side. Judging by the light that still drenched the floor gratuitously through the blinded windows, it was mid-afternoon, still a good hour before Harvey's funeral. Her head pounded as if she had knocked out with illegal drugs to her system, her mind still groggy as she picked up the persistent phone and pulled it to her face, fighting back a yawn. She didn't even care if it was Bruce on the other line; she just wanted the damn phone to shut up and let her sleep a little longer.

The name that flashed at her across the screen made her heart drop and her fatigue die away.

_Harvey Dent._

Her breath caught in her throat as the phone continued to ring, persistently, adamantly, its screaming voice jarring her aching brain, winding chills through her twisting spine, reducing her stomach to liquid in all her horrified panic. Was she dreaming? Was this a sick joke?

The dread settled in a knot along the pit of her stomach as she pushed any tempting thoughts away—that it really _was _the man whose funeral was in mere hours, whose name blinked rapidly across the screen, causing her cell to vibrate and scream and shudder as if possessed. It seemed as if it would never stop unless she answered. She had frozen still for at least a solid minute, the name boring into her sight and dizzying her with all its implications.

It was only when Rachel pulled the phone to her ear that she realized she had been violently shaking.

"Hello?"

Her voice was scratchy, quivering.

She didn't expect the shrill, piercing laughter on the other end.

"Good _morning,_ sleeee-_ping_ beyooo-_ty_! I thought you'd _never_ answer your goddamn phone—I would have had to pay you a visit myself!"

Her heart sank; she felt her knees turn to liquid, dragging her body down into the couch. For a moment Rachel's eyes flicked from the wall before her towards the door of her apartment, as if the voice on the other end would barge through at any moment, as if he were watching her through the peephole, waiting for his chance to invade and attack. The thought caused her to shudder, though the dormant hatred pricked at the edges of her flesh in needles as the Joker taunted her.

Bracing herself, she dug her free fingers into her palm, the force biting through skin and leaving crescent-shaped marks red with blood that sent adrenaline through her system,

"I see you're not only a murderer, but a thief too."

An amused chuckle on the other line, followed rapidly by a high-pitched response,

"Well then, a murderer? I guess that makes the _two_ of us."

The anger that bubbled against her spine and ran along the back of her neck felt as if it would tear her apart as she pressed the phone hard against her ear,

"I don't understand what the fuck you're talking about. I told you, your mind-games don't _work_ with me."

An exaggerated pause, only to be followed by a whistle of mock awe,

"Ooh, and you're just as feisty and _violent_ as you are in person! But I guess you'd have to be, seeing as how _vicious_ you really are underneath that pretty exterior. Why, you almost blew me apart the other night—and you would have _succeeded,_ too, if it wasn't for the Bat having rudely interrupted us! Well, and your _teeny little _fainting spell as well…"

Rachel could hear the sarcasm dripping with each word he spoke through his cracked, scarred lips; she could imagine him now, his reptilian tongue snaking through his red maw in animalistic hunger for her retort, his eyes burning with savage amusement at her expense. She could tear the phone apart with the strength in which she gripped it, could even hang up and fling it into the wall—yet a part of her didn't want to budge, not in the slightest. A part of her wanted to _talk_ to the sick bastard.

"To think," He continued mercilessly, his voice lower in an almost conspiratorial whisper, "If _Batman_ knew how you _never_ seem to keep yourself composed around me! Tied up, fainting…I must _really_ know how to please a woman, don't I? Maybe even better than your precious little Harvey, I'm sure he was too self-absorbed to give you any _fun_ in the first place…"

"Shut up and tell me what you want!" She hissed, her voice so loud she was sure those on the street through her window could hear her.

A loud, satisfied cackle and whooping burst from the other end of the phone, so intense she could hear crackling on the other end,

"I just wanted to continue our _enchanting_ little conversation the night before. You know, our little bond session, our _heart-to-heart._ To think we were making some progress in being _good_ friends before the Batman showed up and wanted you all to himself! Now that's just _rude_, and I feel cheated. I want us to… talk some more, one-on-one, somewhere where we can't be disturbed."

Rachel wanted to scream. She wanted to pull the bastard through the phone itself (if it were at all possible) and kill him right there. Did he think her that _stupid?_ His mockery made her seethe as she retorted sharply,

"And what if I don't _want_ to?"

A quick pause, then, as if she had managed to unnerve him; he spoke casually, confidently, completely unfazed by her words of defiance,

"_Well_ then, I'll just have to drop by a certain dearly beloved's sending off and look for you myself. And to think you were over him _so_ fast, with that man in your apartment earlier today…"

She actually gasped; a chill ran down her spine as she pulled herself to her feet, at a loss for words. He knew where she _lived_. He had been _watching_ her! A hideously excited cackle burst from the other end of the line, strong and forceful in all its vicious mirth,

"_Don't worry,_ there's no fun in ending our little friendship too soon! I won't violate you…_well,_ at least your home."

Rachel could feel him smiling, the slippery red grin oozing into her body as if penetrating her,

"You're a sick bastard. Leave Bruce out of this."

The clicking of a tongue in a "tsk-tsk" noise, as if he were scolding her,

"Ah-ah-ah, you _are_ a naughty girl, aren't you? Entertaining a guest in the middle of the morning and _then_ telling _me_ who not to play with?! Why I think I _have_ to play with him now, just because you don't want me to…and I can think of some _very_ fun games to play."

She couldn't take this anymore. Rachel leapt to her feet, staring wildly about her once-peaceful living room, her body tense as she ran to the door and checked the locks again and again,

"Damn it, if you want to talk to me, then talk to me, just don't hurt Bruce! Do whatever you want to me, not him!"

A low chuckle; suggestive, now, dripping with perversion. The high-pitched voice was overly husky, almost rasping,

"Whatever I want? I _like_ the sound of that, I like it…alo-_tuh._ Oh, but don't worry! I'll be seeing you very soon, in less than…oh, an hour now—and _then_ we can all play! Until then, beautiful!"

Sadistic laughter tore at her eardrums, caused her to wince as the line suddenly shut, the hollow noise ringing through her head as she pressed her cellular snug against her hip, allowing it to dig into her flesh. For a moment the dread took hold of her, and she panicked; her fingers swiftly dialed Bruce's number, tongue held between teeth, fists clutched.

One ring, two…

No one answered.

Rachel swore and shut it quickly, struggling to regain her composure and _think._

After a moment, she knew what she had to do. She couldn't tell Bruce—she wouldn't let his absence from the funeral and Batman's sudden appearance cause the Joker to deduce his identity, but what if the Joker _did_ try to hurt him, or had gotten to him already—? Swearing frantically, Rachel ran to retrieve her keys, stowing them away in the pocket of an overcoat she swung rapidly about her shoulders. She couldn't just _sit_ here, not when the funeral was suddenly so close, not when she knew it would be ravaged by the loss of lives again…because of her own stupidity.

Without another thought, she forced her door open and shut it quickly, knowing she would be at least an hour early for her late fiancée's funeral—but in her mind, it could already be an hour too late.


	4. Four: Bait

Author's Notes:

Hi everyone! Chapter Four is finally here after a little while mulling over the best way of writing events out and what I want to do with this, and rewriting over and over again…lol. I'm still not sure I'm happy with the final product, so I hope you can forgive any slump in quality. This is one of the turning points in the story, but I'll let you figure out why when you're reading. It's also technically separated into two parts because the end of this chapter is such a blatant cliffhanger since the continuation of it would make it 20 plus pages hehe (and I love cruel cliffhangers). ALSO, things begin to get much more twisted from here on out, so um…be forewarned. Not in this chapter specifically but in the near future. Yay!

Individual thank-yous and replies:

Lpchick303: Thank you! I'm glad my detail mixes will within the story. Believe me, I used to be much, much worse. And hopefully I can do just as well with keeping the Joker in character throughout this chapter and the next ones as you say he is so far.

The Mischief: Thank you! Yes, Rachel is going to become an object of sympathy starting in this chapter, as her suffering will escalate greatly, I'm afraid…

MizzStarlight: Thank you! And I'm glad the explanation makes sense now. It was a little too vague so again I apologize. Lol and yes it would be interesting if he had waltzed into her room after her refusal to answer Harvey's calls…but then this would have probably degenerated into fangirl writing because I wouldn't be able to control myself, hehe.

Xheartxcorex: Thank you as alwaysss :D

Petra Gaia: Thanks! I'm glad you could see this as a believable turn of events in the Nolanverse. I also hate it when characters like Rachel/Joker throw themselves at eachother from the very beginning, it's way, way too unfaithful to both their characters. But yes…I also can't wait until that eventually happens (though not throwing themselves at eachother in the least, trust me lol). I'm also happy you liked the phone part! I loved writing it even though at first it seemed really twisted to me…but then again, when is the Joker _not_ really twisted, especially when he's looking to mess with someone's mind?

Kendra Luehr: Ow, I don't like pitchforks! Those things look way too sharp, yech. So I will keep updating, if only out of fear, haha. Thanks again anddd I can't wait until Mistah J's games begin either!! (Which is…a few scrolls down. Yay!) P.S. I keep updating as long as you keep updating! Sound good? hehe

Shiann Reece: Thank you so much! I'm happy the chapters have remained consistent so far. I'm so glad you're looking forward to the rest of this as much as I am! That means a lot. And YES I am also surprised at the lack of a Joker/Rachel community, it's sorely needed…the fact that the fanbase is spreading rapidly is extreeemely exciting to me!

XPrettyXWomanX17X: Thank you! I'm glad you can feel Rachel's rage building, I was really really hoping I'd be able to get it across especially in this chapter. Yaayyyy

NicolinaN: Thank you so much! I'm glad the encounter was spot-on for you and Rachel's rage is believable…it'll just keep growing and growing to be sure.

Kits-bunni: Haha, it doesn't make you a bad person in MY book if you're excited at Joker's destruction at Harvey's funeral, because I'm just as excited. Maybe that makes us both bad people…but oh well, it's much more fun that way lol. Okay, the referencing I took from Batman Begins, though it was probably unclear…I found it a really really nice coincidence and that it fit in well with my story because Chill is the name of the thug in Batman Begins who murdered Bruce's parents when he was a child, leaving him an orphan, and who he wanted to later on shoot at a trial when he was much older, but someone shot Chill before Bruce could…and when he revealed to Rachel his original intentions, she slaps him and bitches him out about justice being impartial and whatnot. And when I saw that I realized the irony of my fanfic and I just had to include it haha.

But yeah I'm definitely on a roll with these chapters, this is the quickest I've ever updated a fanfic…it feels like I've been living and breathing the Dark Knight the past few days it's just stuck in my head I swear lol.

OpenSoulSurgery: Thank you! I'm happy you like the characterization! That's always, like, my biggest concern when I write fanfics like this one.

BlackxValentine: Thank you. And yes, honestly, Rachel annoyed me too in the movie, and I originally WAS happy she died, until I…well until I thought about it I guess lol and how tragic it actually was, and after watching the movie for the second and third time I sympathized with her (not to mention actually started to obsess over Rachel/Joker stuff haha.) And I'll drop a review!

OnyxRose88: Thank you so much! I'm glad you like Joker and the details. And yes I will try to keep up with the quick reviews!

* * *

**Dark Humor**

**Four**

_Justice is balance._

_--Ra's Al Ghul_

* * *

Only five minutes ago, Rachel had begun to race.

What was she racing? The clock that ticked away with vicious rapidity every millisecond, stealing her breath each time she dared to glance at the electric digits in her car? Or maybe she was hoping she would intercept Bruce on his way to Harvey's funeral—if he wasn't already gone, dragged off somewhere, _hurt_. If anything, she wasn't racing against _him_, the madman who had initiated the latest batch of chaos in the first place. He was waiting for her, and the thought that he always knew where she was, had been watching her as she lived day-to-day chilled her to the bones.

Ten, fifteen minutes in traffic. Cars zoomed past in blurs of color as she cursed wildly, slammed a heel against the gas, and floored it. There were no policemen around; they were all stationed outside the funeral home, doing their customary mournful walk before the actual ceremony. Typical of Gotham, the most corrupted place on Earth, to take its crime fighters on another day off as if it was a welcome privilege. But then again, it was also an acknowledgement of failure; a celebration for their enemies.

She passed glaring red lights without stopping, fucking annoying pedestrians that screamed even when she frantically beeped them out of the way, stop signs that she would have rather plowed through in all her hurry than abide by. The funeral home zoomed into sight like a rapidly budding pinprick of black against the horizon, magnified twice its size every second with her relentless speed. As her car skidded to a halt outside the already crowded area, Rachel pulled herself from the halted vehicle and stared across the asphalt to the nearly-finished parade.

There were countless people there; standing outside of their homes or gazing out of windows at the procession, clustered across the sidewalks in rows upon rows of heads, as all Gotham's sizable police force lined in rows of navy blue, badges glinting in the evening sunlight, weapons in hand with the rigid formality of soldiers. Within the group was the remarkably long-living Mayor Garcia, his lifespan a phenomenon throughout such chaotic times; Commissioner Gordon at his side, his eyes darting pensively across the crowds as if sweeping for potential threat. Rachel should have been in the procession herself, she knew, but she hadn't formally been named head D.A.; it was just an informal fact that she was now in such a high position. For now, she was better off watching from the sidelines, better from keeping her panic isolated from formality and tradition.

_He wouldn't attack them all outside. He'll wait until we're all closed together; suffocated, cramped. Until we can't all get out at once. We could run out in the open, escape._

She was thinking as predator, as an animal—it was the only way she could possibly predict what they would very soon inevitably face.

_Dehumanize yourself, and you can almost understand him. It's all just power play. It's all just chaos and anarchy. Marking your territory with blood instead of other fluids…_

As she thought, the heavy black coffin came into view, flanked by police officers. Rachel turned her head aside amidst the crowd and shut her eyes, her breath shaking. She struggled with all her 

might not to _see_ the coffin's inhabitant, what lay within, even if it was the man she had _loved._ It was an object, now; a solid block of black, a slab of stone. There was no Harvey there. He was outside of it; he was in her memories and with _her_, nothing more, nothing less.

Comforted by the thought, Rachel stared at the passing coffin's back, at the miniature flood of more navy-blue outfitted officers that followed. She broke into a quick run at the side of the road, where the grim funeral building lay before.

She still hadn't seen Bruce.

oOo

She was searching. Close friends and officials clustered throughout the massive funeral home as if it were a miniature city, united in its black mourning. The men were dressed identically in their crisp suits, making it almost impossible to distinguish one from the other. Ten, fifteen minutes ticked voraciously by in which she forced herself through close-knit crowds with elbows and frantic shoves, receiving grunts and rude retorts but never truly hearing through the pounding in her ears, never seeing the faces that turned to stare. Rachel knew somehow that she would recognize Bruce if she ran into him, despite being tangled in the ocean of black-clad people that, in her panic, seemed to inhabit every corner of the funeral home's cramped entrance hall. She was glad she wasn't claustrophobic; even then, everything seemed to be pressing down on her as she walked quickly forward, pushing into her from left and right and behind as if the people would extend their arms and grab her, hinder her from finding Bruce, drag her back and away into nothingness.

Forcefully she pushed through the remainder of inhabitants, who gaped and glared at her as she passed, reaching blessedly empty air near the main room in which they would all be sitting soon to suffocate each other yet again. There were too many people here, their bodies seeming countless like swarms of black ants, all of them coming to pay tribute to the late D.A. and undoubtedly even now gazing with curiosity upon his former fiancée. But of course he would choose the most populated place to play his little games—where did she expect him to go and blow things up, an empty field?

A few more people stood before her as she advanced; men with their backs turned, adamantly blocking her way in their stiffness. She didn't have time to waste; she pushed between them, causing them to turn and stare. It was only until a hand grabbed her by her wrist that she turned and stared straight into the face of Gordon, watching her with an almost equally panicked look she knew was obvious upon her features at that very moment.

"Gordon," Rachel gasped, her voice almost cracking, while the two other policemen that had been at his side watched her curiously.

Gordon's face seemed just as weary as she felt; he held the tops of her arms and watched her intently, studying her telltale expression,

"Rachel. What's wrong? What did you hear?"

"He—he _called_ me," She replied quietly, and he pulled her towards a corner as she spoke, fighting back the urge to raise her voice in her panicked ire, "He told me he'd be here…but I haven't seen him, I don't know where he'd be, he's _inside_ though, Gordon, he _has_ to be…"

Gordon nodded, his eyes wide behind his glasses yet glazed over with sharp determination,

"Of course, you're right…he's here somewhere. I'll stand guard with the others in outside while it's happening, there are already a few in the room—everything will be okay, we'll get the bastard." He paused as he motioned the officers he had been standing with to come forward, just as the dozens of guests began to file through the opened doors,

"Did…he say what he was after?"

She said nothing; her throat caught, her eyes conveying the answer before her lips could. He stared at her for a solid minute before understanding filled his face, which then twisted in almost violent ambition,

"We're not letting him get to you, Rachel. Go with the guards. We'll seal the door and watch everyone who files in."

Hesitantly, she nodded, wanting to protest; wanting her own gun, at least. Something akin to skepticism filled her gut; perhaps it was instinct, knowing that somehow the plan that Gordon lay would turn on itself, or perhaps never even work in the first place. They'd been through too much to be overly optimistic—

Rachel had learned a long time ago it was no use to believe in miracles when there was no God in Gotham to grant them.

oOo

Surveying the people that filled the long aisles with a sweeping gaze, she wondered just how many of them could escape in time. Policemen filled the aisles intermittently between Harvey's relatives and close friends, city officials in such variety as judges, politicians and high-ranking lawyers, the Mayor himself sitting flanked with two officers on each side. The aisles were filling up fast, so fast that she had barely caught the familiar sight of Bruce, relief flooding her in wild currents at his strongly comforting frame.

For a moment she tried to reach him—she didn't know if he would talk to her, even, or if it was worth telling him of the potential threat. The Joker may not even be able to get through the door; his scars would mark him apart from the others, make up or not, all the mobsters able to be identified by plain sight. Besides, if anything were to happen…well, Batman would find a way to leave, to come back and aid them all. Comforted by this logic, she crossed her legs and took in a deep breath as she sat at the foremost aisle, the only one that had not been completely inhabited, her eyes still catching on Bruce's side, as if internally begging him to look in her direction, if only to really be sure he had been _untouched._

Crossing her arms against her overcoat, she bit her lip and anxiously watched the first few people speak, repeating words they had spoken while at the parade; Mayor Garcia, the police alert to attention at the sides of the rooms, pacing slowly and deliberately; prominent district judges; city officials who she failed to notice and recognize in her mental preoccupation. Where could he possibly be, where could he possibly make an entrance? Her mind strained to think along the edges of his own; the best trick, the most malicious arrival possible…

"Rachel," A voice whispered in her ear, breaking the tense silence for a moment.

One of the officers who had been sitting next to her was staring at her, his kind gaze watching her intently as she focused on reality; she took in the hushed crowd of people around her, the cold wooden surface of the aisle against her hands…everything seemed to be tense, taut, waiting. It was then she realized half of the reason was because they were waiting on _her_, because sometime or other they had called her for the closing eulogy, and she was expected to stand and speak. Coughing slightly, the District Attorney straightened her dress and pulled herself to her feet, making her way towards the foremost section of the suddenly very cramped hall.

She was standing at the podium, her heart racing frantically in her ribs, pounding so hard it felt hot and raw. Her eyes swept the endless rows of people once, twice, spotting Bruce again, who was sitting with a mixed look of rapt attention and saddened resignation on his unknowing face, a flash of Mayor Garcia with his eyes savage and stricken with a hint of a paranoia as his black-clad men took their posted seats at the end of each aisle, a few of Harvey's close and distant relatives, sobbing into handkerchiefs or looking off into the distance...

Every other face seemed to shift into an endless conglomeration of skin against black fabric; she couldn't make any sense of which one was stark white with those ghastly eyes and reddened lips--or, if he wasn't wearing his war paint, she couldn't even see his _scars._ The doors had been tightly sealed shut, flanked on the outside by officers, by Gordon, whom she vehemently prayed was still alright. Behind her, Harvey's coffin lay against a flat wall, sealed shut. There was no way the bastard could escape. There was no way all of _them _could escape at once.

And Batman himself was trapped in the room with them all, just as much as victim as the rest of them were.

She squeezed a fist against the podium, smiling tightly with a feigned mournfulness to hide her panic. He was here, somewhere, smiling that permanently carved Glasgow grin, out of sight yet never entirely far from her, his knife glinting and ready in whatever darkness he crept. For a fleeting moment Rachel met Gordon's gaze through a slight crack in the heavy doors and saw the constant tenseness that was oblivious to all others flooding the room; they were mourning, yet they would never fully understand its true nature until the day died.

"Harvey Dent. What can we say about him that hasn't already been said?"

She began from pure unplanned speech; something ached in her chest as she said the name she hadn't fully wanted to acknowledge from anyone else's lips, but as it flew from her own it was like a betrayal. They could have been saying _Rachel _instead; there would be nothing to accompany her own funeral to match the degree of stringent trepidation in this room that made 

the air noxious and thick. Her eyes swept across the room again, again; all with that tight smile, each time going through every face before her and wondering what lay beneath the collared shirts, the lowered heads.

"As his former fiancée, I knew him much more personally than most would have the privilege to say. And I can tell you he was truly a great man, through and through, dedicated to protecting Gotham and its people. Harvey wanted not to be its sole protector, however; he wanted to be a symbol. He wanted to encourage everyone to stand up against the crime that ravaged our beautiful city, he wanted us to remember his examples and live by them. And we need to do that...starting today."

With every word, her apprehension grew; her voice shook at the end of the last sentence, one that could be easily masked by sympathetic funeral-goers as genuine sadness for Harvey's passing. Of course, part of that was true, yet at the moment she couldn't even _think_ of the man behind her when a much more menacing one lay somewhere, mere feet before. Taking a very deep breath, she watched the unmoving crowd and gripped the podium's surface, digging nails into wood, the half-moon crests decorating the wooden angle. She could feel Bruce's eyes upon her as he read her open gaze, sensed her panic as only their intuition would allow; and before he could catch her own with a questioning look, she turned her head and continued, shutting her eyes,

"Harvey wanted us, and _still_ wants us, to fight back. Although I am now a more prominent District Attorney, we can _all_ be—we have to stop standing back and take action in any way we possibly can. We have to _be_ justice for our Gotham, for Harvey's memory. We need to stand strong in spirit, to stand united together and face the criminals as we would have had Harvey still been with us and Batman—"

As she constantly looked around, at the rows upon rows of nods and approving murmurs, a flash of black stopped her dead in her speech. Out of the corner of her eye, Bruce gazed frantically his seat, and he, too, noticed what more and more people were beginning to respond to with bursts of outrage and annoyance. A man was out of his seat; an average-looking man, harmless had he not been running across the aisles at breakneck speed towards the cluster of policemen that had gathered before the podium.

"Batman is a murderer!" He screamed so loud his voice was raw and hoarse, his mouth _foaming,_ his face a bulging red and eyes wide with nothing but chaos, "Batman murdered Harvey Dent!"

He was coming closer to the officers; their fists clenched around their shotguns as they held them steady, the three of them just as stunned and taken aback at the remainder of the crowd that still clustered the aisles, standing still like a black sheet.

"Stop where you are! _Freeze_!" They screamed in unison, their shotguns cocked, yet the man continued to run blindly up the long path, his hands waving, body shaking as if in convulsions—

Another man was running horizontally across the end of the room; another crept from a corner aisle, silent and still. Her body froze; she eyed every one of them, unmasked, average. Her gasp 

was echoed across the silent room, and she could see Gordon through the doorway, debating on whether to run through the door or stay still, Bruce at the desperate edge of action with his palms flexed against the seat's surface, his knees bent—

And then all hell broke loose.

The screaming man lunged at the nearest of the three officers; the hail of bullets penetrated the silent air like miniature bombs, and Rachel found herself watching with transfixed horror as his body shook and convulsed full of the artillery, holes bursting across flesh and blood dribbling like a fountain.

"Stop that! Stop at once—ENOUGH!"

Gordon screamed from his position, his face pink with a mixture of rage and horror as the wide-eyed frightened policemen continued to shoot in their panic. Screams echoed across the aisle ways as people rustled and jostled one another, ducking their heads in their seats, each contemplating leaving the funeral yet none daring to run amidst the gunfire. Bruce was watching the other two men who were prowling, seemingly unnoticed, amidst the panic; as did Rachel, her breath hitched and shuddering against the microphone, her voice as steady as she could keep it amidst the constant quivering,

"Everyone...stay calm. Stay in your seats, please. There are people armed in the back of the room—"

Her reflexes acted before she could. As the hail of bullets from the two men's guns, pulled from their suit coats, pored across the podium, she jerked herself beneath it, her head ducking under her forearms. She found herself crawling rapidly across the small expanse of ground to reach the back of Harvey's coffin. They wouldn't have been able to see her; she pulled herself behind the wood, gazing out with widened eyes and frantic resolve across the now wild, panic-stricken crowd. The men stopped firing yet all eyes were transfixed upon them; at their leering, seemingly emotionless faces, devoid of anything but apathy.

In an instant, the rows of once indiscernible, still headed people were reduced to wide-eyed, screaming masses. They couldn't stay in their seats for long, despite the men who threatened them with guns, the strangely unresponsive officers, every scream from every person heightened, magnified, until it formed unanimous, hysterical cries of pure fear. A wide-eyed man, shuddering wildly, suddenly caught her gaze as she found him creeping across the aisle way, the policemen still sitting with straight faces, the two prowling figures oddly silent and inert.

It didn't take long to realize why they didn't keep him from escaping through the aisle. As he jumped across its wooden edge with the intent of running as rapidly towards the door as he could, his mouth uttered a strange, gnarled cry. The sound of something beeping filled the room, overtook the screams as all eyes were upon him, as she made out the thick, almost wiry line that extended across either end of each aisle way, something he had tripped—

His body burst into flames as he hit the wall nearby, having flung himself into its hard surface in panic as the aisle bomb ignited. Instantly, the other hysterical, screaming people lining the same aisle grew more and more frantic as their own bodies burst with the hungry fire, and she realized it had been a _bomb_ that man had tripped, as the wooden seat ignited in a miniature wildfire, the civilians scorched before countless panicked eyes.

Rachel bit back her own terrified cry at the sight, covering her mouth with her hands, watching Bruce's equally horrified stare.

They were trapped.

They were being held and confined in their seats, the unwilling audience to a show of horrors.

She eyed the two men at the end of the room again, the men whose guns had not faltered in their aim or their bodies in all its quiet stillness.

They were staring ahead at something.

At first she thought it was herself, and she hoisted her body behind the coffin again; then she was aware that it was _moving_ slightly, the edge quivering as if vibrating from within.

Vibrating with high-pitched _laughter._

She couldn't move; she was paralyzed with outrage, fear, terror. All at once these emotions that had not at all been present before built up to a horrific clenching in her stomach; she pushed her hands hard against the wooden floor, used it to spring up slightly on her knees, scrabbled against the wall as the coffin suddenly jerked violently upwards and began to swing slowly, steadily opened. The laughing continued, reduced to a low, yet even more violently shuddering cackle. The men at the end of the room began to rustle and shuffle their feet almost unconsciously as the coffin's top hit its creaking, whining edge to fully reveal the body within it. By the time Rachel could twist her head properly and watch them, their guns still pointed towards her hunched body, they were wearing clown masks, as well as the policemen who had been shooting them minutes before.

Her eyes met Bruce's, held his gaze steady. He was staring back at her with unabashed terror.

She could see the side of the inhabitant figure clearly; her hands shook and ached to lunge and attack it as she took in the full view of what the rest of the crowd perceived at the very same moment. The purple-suited _thing_ seemed sleeping peacefully, his eyes clenched shut, the lacerations of that never-ending grin standing up red and puffed and almost bloody in the fluorescent bulbs of the funeral home. His arms were crossed upon his torso as he lay there, mockingly inanimate; and then Rachel saw what he was lying on top of, and an angry, almost inhuman snarl wrenched its way from her throat.

Around him lay multicolored _boxes,_ strung with green ribbon in all their various jeweled shades.

_Explosives._

Her stomach flipped. Bruce's eyes hardened from the corner of her gaze, his face dripping with acid hatred and extreme frustration. The familiar frustration of powerlessness; Rachel had known it all too well throughout her lifetime, and now she felt it quite achingly, with the clown bastards' guns pointed straight at her and every single individual, including _Batman,_ potentially wired to an explosive in his seat. Not to mention the bushel that lay beneath the clown prick's still form.

_Everyone is wired but _me, she suddenly realized, and desperately, her breath taut in her throat, she pulled herself to her feet.

The clowns lowered their guns that had been cocked and ready for her head. She gazed at them in both confusion and suspicion as she stood straight behind the coffin, her feet aching to walk away, shuffle across the gaze of hundreds of terrified eyes and sadistic accomplices and dread-filled loved ones to safety. To Batman.

_But even Batman comes with a little death this time, doesn't he?_

As she took a careful step to the side, a loud, fervent clapping rang from the opened coffin. The Joker snapped his eyes wide and grinned beneath his hideously deformed scars; he jumped lithely from his laying position to sit roughly upon the edge of Harvey's coffin, chuckling lightly as he continued to clap with growing fervor.

"Brava, brava, _brava!_" He shouted enthusiastically, his tone as always glazed over with genuine amusement and feigned praise, "A wonderful, thrilling _show_ you've put on for us my darling little D.A.! _Poor wittle fallen Harvey's_ wishes echoed in the words of his broken-hearted mistress, the talk of defending Gotham and _taking up the mantle_ for dramatic effect, and..."

He gestured towards the frozen crowd, the two of his own men, the sealed doors; then, his grin widening until his scars appeared about to rip, he turned his head with the slow, deliberateness of a snake lewdly closing in on prey, his painted eyes meeting her own,

"The horrible _irony_ of it all. Hilarious!"

With a ringing peal of laughter that echoed across the never ending aisles, the Joker slapped his thigh and resettled himself in his seemingly comfortable position upon the cushion that was the late Harvey Dent's coffin. Rachel's form quivered violently beneath her dress; she held her tongue between her teeth to keep from lashing out at the madman with her fists and enduring the unpleasant barrage of his accomplices' bullets within her body at her outburst.

Bruce Wayne was fuming. Gordon even more so, as she saw him standing at the very front of the sealed door, his men pounding frantically at the other end. His face turned purple, glasses nearly going askew with the strength of his scream,

"You cowardly son of a bitch! Holding us all prisoners with your antics at a _funeral home_?! My 

men are going to rip your hide in half when they manage to get to you, you motherfucking sadistic clown!"

The Joker's eyes, boring and icy as always, flicked from Rachel's at that moment to Gordon's hysterical expression, an expression of twisted darkness looming over his chalk-white face for one unsettling moment. Then his fleeting frown twisted wildly against his face and he was shaking with giggles, giggles which echoed across the tense air and made it slick and hot with her own burning hatred.

"You know...that's the most _colorful_ I've heard your vocabulary, commissioner! Perhaps it's because you are so, ah... pathetically _weak_ right now? Being held captive by a scarred up circus-clown must really be damaging for that inflated, pompous ego—"

Gordon pulled out a pistol from his jacket, aiming with a shaking hand,

"I'll show you _damaging, you--"_

_"Ah, ah, ah, ah, ahhhh!" _He sang in a crooning voice; in an instant he made a sweeping gesture and pulled a crudely made detonator from his pocket, throwing it up and down with careless abandon against his palm.

A gasp swept across the room by the horrified civilians caught within the cross-fire; at their unanimous fear, he cackled again, his serpentine tongue running over the red slit of his scarred mouth,

"You might want to be careful with how _sweetly_ you want to persuade me, commissioner. Your words might have...a _lasting effect._"

With a smirk, he pulled himself from his makeshift throne upon his explosives and stood upon his feet, stretching exaggeratedly like a cat. Rachel watched his casualty with growing frustration; she stared for a moment at Harvey's coffin, the body undeniably lost, her heart quivering dangerously with the threat to explode in on itself at her realization her lover had been crudely violated.

"What do you want, Joker?" Gordon inquired quietly, his eyes ablaze as they kept themselves fixed upon the figure which paced back and forth across the coffin's front, looking quite smug and pleased with himself.

A giggle in response; excited, as if it were a young child having been asked to display his perfect report card,

"What do I _want? _Why thank you for asking, but the answer is _quite_ obvious even for nitwits—"

As he spoke he flicked his gaze towards Rachel, again, cocking his head as a smirk played through the war paint, a smirk that she returned with a violent glare she desperately hoped failed to showcase any flicker of fear.

"I want Gotham _to burn_, turn into pretty little ashes from the _bottoms-up!_ This entire city is just a sick joke that's been allowed to run for _too long!_" He giggled after every exaggerated emphasis of a word, his tongue flicking across his mouth as his excitement bubbled and threatened to burst, "All these stupid officials thinking they can stop the _corruption _when _every single person _in this room..."

He paused for a moment, turning his body completely towards Rachel's inert frame. His eyes penetrated her own for the first time since the other day; brooding, violating, raping her frail, rage-shaken control. They held _knowledge_ in them as he stared, some smug perception of her that couldn't possibly be true but made perfect sense in his twisted mind. With a flourish, the psychopath held a hand out towards her; she refused to take it, continuing to stay still, and he growled and grabbed so hard at her wrist his nails dug into her flesh. He twisted her forwards with violent force, too strong for her to do anything but follow, a shriek escaping her mouth as the pain set her nerves ablaze. A chuckle bubbled against her ear as she found herself pressed forcefully in front of his torso, his hot breath on her neck, tickling her skin that prickled as uncomfortably to the touch as if acid had been poured upon each and every pore. She felt the sharpness of his knife digging gently against her back, as he held both her arms backwards, twisted together uncomfortably in his surprisingly strong grip,

"_Including,_ if not _especially,_ our lovely D.A. here. She's corrupted beyond _belief_!"

Gordon's eyes were wide and murderous; he held his pistol at aim, still, yet had no chance of shooting at his distance and missing Rachel's body which was so tightly pressed against the Joker's. She willed him to just _shoot_, begged him in her mind, didn't care in the slightest if the bullets penetrated her own body and killed her outright but God, _not all these people—_

"Let her go."

A pause; a fleeting, deadly quiet of recognition that sent dread through Rachel's spine as soon as she sensed it. The hot breath that ran along her neck was replaced with the horrific feeling of the cold, uneven skin of a scar pressed up against the back of her throat; he was smiling against her, tauntingly, the other end of his Glasgow grin pointed in Bruce Wayne's direction as she felt the Joker gaze upon him for the first time.

His words haunted her again, came back as high-pitched and sadistically painful in its accuracy as it was now, as he held her so close that one flick of his knife in the right place could end her life in seconds:

_Bait._

"_Funny_," The Joker replied smoothly, his voice suddenly devoid of a chuckle, down to a quiet hiss, "I thought _my_ jokes were bad. You expect me to listen to _you_, when you're not locked up in your fancy little manor, delusional in your pitiful little thinking that you have _any_ semblance of power when I could _fucking blow you sky-high right now?_"

Bruce's dark gaze mirrored the Joker's as he stared straight at him for a time that felt frozen in eternity. Her body was quivering against the knife upon the small of her back, and the Joker responded to her automatic quivering with another grin of spreading scars against her goose bumped flesh. Slowly, he raised his knife carefully enough from her back upwards so as to not tear clothing yet to send a revolted chill up her spine; she twitched in his grip in protest, but that only elicited a shudder from her mouth when the tip of his knife jabbed against the top of her back, just beneath her shoulder blades. Then, as if settling on a position in which to torment her best, he cradled her chin forcefully in a gloved hand while using the other to press the blade against her jugular vein, stroking lightly up and down across the wildly beating pulse point.

Rachel didn't want to look at anyone in the hushed crowd; her eyes burned with the shame of being shown on display by this madman, twisted into another object for his own sadistic ends.

_Does this mean I should fight back, and die now, or stay still and die later?_

Her mind played with the thought darkly, disgusted at the own helpless vulnerability it implied. Her breath grew heavier, hotter; her limbs tensed. Every part of her ached to reach backwards and kick him; yet he could thrust himself forward and stab the blade straight through, and she would collapse in a heap of her own blood against the ground, defeated. She couldn't let such a thing happen, especially when...

_What? Especially when Bruce is watching? Are you sure he would mind? Or do you just want to live through another day so you can bury that knife in the Joker's gut yourself?_

Instead of resisting, her eyes met Bruce's again; his hard, seething stare grew more and more enraged with every passing moment. His cheeks were flushed red, his brows pressed together; she realized what the bastard behind her was doing, and that was intentionally provoking Bruce into saying the wrong thing, into provoking _him._ She wasn't the target; _Bruce_ was.

If she fought back and he attacked her, would Bruce lose his nerve and jump from the seat, only to be blown into nonexistence with the bloodied, charred aisle on the other end? Gordon was taking deep, shuddering breaths, the people surrounding them merely watching, transfixed with fear and grief amidst their own captivity.

_Please Bruce, don't lose your nerve. Just let him do what he wants...just for now. Batman can't help right now. Batman isn't _you _right now._

Her eyes were silently pleading, his own stricken over with hardened pain. Bruce's fingers trembled against his seat at the very end of the aisle as he never looked away; with a low, bestial purr, she felt the ice cold blade's tip run up her throat and behind her ear, brushing at her hair, sweeping it away from the side of her face. Keeping his knife poised along the spot between the side of her chin and throbbing, pulsing heartbeat, the sadistic snake giggled and ran a cold, slippery tongue along the point his knife had marked. A jolt ran through Rachel and she whimpered in frustrated protest, her whimper becoming a gasp as the tip of the blade sank along the saliva-slicked line, cutting it through in a shallow, reddening wound. Blood slid from her white neck; slowly, dribbling down across her collarbone, searing hot and painful against her clammy flesh, and Bruce bit back a howl of rage at the sight of it. Her neck throbbed as the tiny 

trace of pain seared against her frantic pulse, yet she refused to give him the satisfaction of displaying any fear other than her wildly pumping heart.

"Tell me, does it..._excite_ Gotham to know that its...thirst for violence has been slaked by the death of the almighty Dent?" He asked casually as he continued to trace her skin with his blade; not cutting now, but _teasing_, struggling to intimidate the quiet, still girl in his grasp,

"Does it please you all to see even your newest D.A., the next defenseless human from the pathetic hordes of Gotham city, being offered up here like a _sacrifice?_ Well, as long as it isn't any of _you_, then it doesn't matter _who dies! _When everything goes according to plan, you're all _happy_ with your bloodshed. And I'm about to prove that."

His voice was dangerously low, then; he leaned forward and twisted his knife in a spinning circle across her collarbone, as if it were some sort of drill that never truly penetrated its intended target. With another giggle, he twisted her hair roughly behind her head in a tangled knot in his fingers, pulling her backwards; she twitched slightly in his forceful grip yet refused to reply yet again, her gaze as he met her own unerringly defiant.

Those goddamned eyes were boring into her again; his prodding gaze stiffened, darkened before flickering into hollow amusement. It was a game. It was another one of his games, a game to crack her, to make her _break,_ to make her scream. It was being played in front of Gotham itself, orchestrated perfectly in the way he flicked his knife against her skin like a conductor's stick. It was being played in how many people she loved he could bring down before she would give in.

She wasn't willing to see Bruce's dead body added to that pile.

_  
_ "You see," The Joker continued, eyeing Gordon and Bruce's trembling faces with a twisted leer of triumph, "I have certain ways to make all you people reveal your true little twisted selves. You're all out for _yourselves_, but you don't really know it yet, not until you're put in a situation. When little Smarvey Harvey was wired to his _fireworks,_ ready to go _BOOM!—_you think he honestly _cared_ about his little squeeze on the other end, or about surviving for the _well-being_ of anyone here?"

"Enough with the lecture, Joker," Gordon hissed from his seat, even while the two of the Joker's drones raised their guns and cocked them in warning, "Tell us what you _want_."

A satisfied grin broke across the painted face, wide black eyes suddenly fiery with hunger,

"_I _want Gotham to _burn_, didn't I say that already, you damned idiot?!" A giggle broke across his lips; he eyed Bruce again, and Rachel could see he was fighting his every nerve not to lunge for the two of them and explode into pieces in the process, "But why speak in generalities? I want the new District Attorney, of course! I want to teach her a lesson! What a better way of, ah..._initiation_ than to carve up that _pretty_ _little face_--"

"And what if we don't let her?!"  


The Joker watched as Bruce's eyes narrowed while Gordon asked the obvious question, beginning to reach a semblance of a breaking point. Rachel's body burned in aching suspense as she realized he was actually _giving_ _in _to the clown's provocations; she bit her lip and shook her head against the knife that suddenly inched its way up to her lips, tracing their outline as it ran along to her jaw, the hollow of her cheek. His giggle became a hysterical cackle.

"Let her?! _Let her?!_ I could _carve her up _right now if I wanted to!" His knife pierced the surface of her cheek, another dribble of blood running along her skin, as thin and delicate as a tear. Her cheek ached against the consistent pressure of his knife, yet she refused to flinch, to show him the least bit of fear or pain to satisfy him. Hostility flashed in her eyes, however; she couldn't help the pervading rage and desire to strike him that constantly filled her, growing until erupting; a potential, deadly mistake. His eyes flickered towards her, feeding on that rage, appearing almost _thrilled_ by it.

_I win,_ his painted smile seemed to leer, _I win and you're going to play my little game the way I want. _

"You see," He continued, his voice low and rattling with perverse excitement, "There's _no choice_ in this matter. Because the other _choice_...is every life in this room!"

A strangled gasp again; the entire silent crowd appeared to moan unanimously. A terrified child burst into tears against the silence, yet the Joker made no move to silence it. It seemed to excite him, this visible display of fear that emanated across the prominent populace crammed into the tiny room,

"Either _Rachel Dawes_, the pretty little D.A. of Goth-_ham_, comes along so we can, ah...have a little chat, or everyone else is blown into little itty bits and pieces from Smarvey Harvey's fireworks! Now does that sound like a _fair deal?_"

Even Gordon seemed to grow quiet, his discolored features sinking into a disheveled slump as the aisles shifted in their silent assent. Rachel's heart went cold, her veins freezing as the absolution dissolved over her. She would have to go with him. There _was_ no choice; there had never been, ever since she had brought her gun to the bastard's head the other day. She would put up a fight, of course, when they were alone...but _not_ while everyone in this room was strapped to a bomb, not while they all stared at her with their terrified, pleading eyes, and Bruce himself was on the verge of doing something extremely unwise and most likely enough to get him killed.

After dead stillness, Rachel opened her mouth to speak, feeling the Joker's already rumbling, triumphant laughter deep within his chest as he shoved her as forcefully against his body as he could manage. But as the words of surrender shaped along her trembling lips, a quiet voice interrupted them.

"You don't have to go anywhere, Rachel."

She wanted to scream in frustration. Instead she turned her head in unison with the suddenly 

unnerved madman that held her, feeling his body grow tense, her eyes prickling with unshed tears.

"_Bruce_," She pleaded, her voice a long, disparate sigh. She shook her head, tendrils of hair flying about her frantic face, her skin shuddering against the Joker's still-firm knife scratching deeper across her flesh, "Bruce, please don't do this. You don't want to _do_ this. Just let me go. _Please_."

"No," Bruce barked back, his eyes bold and angry as they met her own, almost overwhelming, "You can't just give into this bastard! You can't let him win, Rachel!"

"Bruce, _please,_" She said as the tears threatened to break, the Joker's snarl ripping from behind her like a bloodthirsty beast, "_Please_ listen to me and let me _go_. Gotham can't go like this. You know there's no other choice."

Bruce was still shaking his head, his gaze as adamant and unyielding as endless eyes stared upon the two of them in incredulity. Why would he sacrifice their lives for _her?_ A girl that he had originally forsaken...

"Let's us three get a bit more acquainted before I _vomit_," The high-pitched voice interrupted them, and he was walking, grabbing her hair so hard her scalp stung, pushing her rapidly forward, captor and captive coming closer and closer to Bruce's still body. Rachel felt the terror grow, the possibility that he may not make it through this night alive along with _herself_ sending images of horror through her mind. What would Gotham do with its masked vigilante dead? What would it do with its second D.A. dead within _days_?

As if he were reading her mind, the Joker giggled again, turning her head and thrusting his knife from her delicate skin to the air before him.

Bruce was inches away from the knife that gleamed with bloodlust in the Joker's hand, his still frame eyeing the blade that ran its way along the side of his cheek,

"Wanna know how I got these scars?"


	5. Five: Dementia

**Author's Notes:**

Hi again, everyone! Here's the next installment of my 'fic…thanks to everyone for waiting patiently. :)

I've realized while writing this that I seem to be making my vengeance!Rachel a little bitchy. I'm afraid I may have put her slightly OOC in some people's eyes but I think that when you're in a situation like hers which can only worsen at this point then you'd be bitching people out too…hmm, well, you can decide for yourselves if her portrayal is okay. I will fix accordingly

I'm getting some chronic fear that this fanfic will degenerate to fangirly, so I'm trying my best to keep it from going that way while still making events Rachel/Joker-centric. Keep in mind it only gets darker from here on as Rachel goes on her little twisted descent, sanity-wise. I've also been considering adding a future sex-filled chapter but at the same time am debating it in my head because it would have to be quite twisted for vengeful Rachel and our beloved psychopathic clown…what do you think?

It wouldn't be coming anytime soon, anyway—I'm still having my fun with the mindgames. ;) Lots more Joker next chapter, by the way. I also find myself hating Gordon in this chapter, lol, but I wrote him this way, so it's a self-inflicted hatred, you could say…

P.S. Anyone know how to fix the retarded spacing that keeps messing up no matter how much I try to fix it in edit mode? I've been trying forever and it kinda pisses me off lol...but as long as it doesn't interfere with the reading, I guess.

ANYWAY, here comes the individual thank you's/review replies:

OpenSoulSurgery: Thank you! You are too sweet, I'm so intensely flattered you like my story so much :D Glad the ending was Joker-consistent, haha

Xheartxcorex: Thank you! Yeah it was pretty heavy, and even heavier to write lol…at first I was going to have the Joker in the crowd without any makeup, but that would have been more predictable…so I settled on making it a little dark and comical (in only the way Joker would think is funny…) Originally Harvey's body was still in there but that would have been waaayyyy too sadistic I think lol

Kendra Luehr: Thank you soo soo much! Yes, the Joker is quite a tricky bastard…maybe that's just part of his appeal though. :) And yes, nobody knows what happened to Harvey (not even me, but I'm not admitting that haha…even though I just did. Crap. )! I'm staying with my deal of the both of us updating though because, um, you just HAVE to, there's no choice, I'm just as eager about your updates as you seem to be about mine lol :)

IVIaedhros: Thanks for the input. I left a reply and I hope it makes sense…

Lpchick303: Thank you thank you thank you! And yes that scene came to my head too after I wrote the coffin part (which was an extremely kick-ass scene in the movie by the way, among many, many others). I'm glad my story/writing is unique in a good way , that makes me really really happy to hear :) I hope I didn't leave you hanging TOO long!

NicolinaN: Thank you! It just gets crueler I'm afraid…haha ;)

THANK YOU as well to all the favorite-ers and story alert-ers. Again, I'd love it if you guys dropped a review as well just because I love to know everyone's input in regards to my fanfic because I'm trying to make it the best I can…I'd really, really appreciate it. Feedback is the number one reason why I update, really.

Enjoy, love you all and thank you for reading! :)

* * *

**Dark Humor**

**Five**

_Justice is balance._

_--Ra's Al Ghul_

* * *

Bruce's gaze never seemed to falter, even as the Joker stood before him, his knife running along the outline of his cheek, the pressure hard enough to break skin at any moment. Rachel was transfixed, staring at that sharp object, dread filling her as she realized what could happen within seconds if the psychopath was anymore provoked, if Bruce said anything remotely justifying his butchering.

_But this is the _Joker's_ provocation…he may just kill him no matter what. Unless I play along his rules…_

Could she prevent this? By the heat of the man's breath behind her, suddenly flaming and wickedly excited, Rachel bit the inside of her cheek and wondered if his perverse desire for blood couldn't possibly be stopped. Bruce's defiance was what triggered this; maybe, if she protested, she could get him out of this _alive_.

"Bruce, _please_," Rachel murmured as her sadistic captor continued to trace invisible lines along her oldest friend's face, as if selecting which part to carve away first, to make gush with downpours of blood, "Please just let me go. _Please._"

Couldn't he see what his defiance was _doing_? Of course she would never give into the Joker's provocations when they were alone, when it was only her life at risk. But with all these people watching with bated breath, these people who included her dearest friend, his life or death weighing in the flick of a bloodthirsty criminal's wrist…

They needed to give him control. Satisfy him, and no one would get hurt.

Except herself, of course. But at the moment it didn't even seem to matter.

"Please, Rachel," The dark-haired vigilante replied, his voice unnervingly calm even with the knife scratching at his cheek, "I've dealt with much worse than some psychotic _clown_—"

All she could hear for a fleeting instant was her own strangled cry as Bruce's head fell backwards against the seat, a gush of red flying through the air as blood flew across his left cheek. Laughter pierced the air; loud, maniacal, ecstatic. The Joker's tongue flicked across his mouth as if to satisfy the thirst in his black eyes, and Rachel was unable to hide her panic, her chest heaving, her body trembling against the firm fist clenched in her hair.

"Bruce! Bruce, stop it, _please_! You don't have to do this—just let me _go_!"

"Oh, but we're all just having _so much fun!_" The Joker protested with another bark of laughter, his eyes taking in the fright that now etched her face as if it were sweeter than the blood that coursed across Bruce's cheek, "Why Brucey-boy is looking better than ever, he's so _eager_ to just put a _smile_ on that serious face! And anyway, he was being _rude_, interrupting my story! Let's teach him some _manners,_ shall we?"

With another lightning-swift jerk he whipped around and Bruce's sharp intake of breath was all that filled Rachel's ears. Her eyes widened as she saw another line of red, just below the gash upon his cheek, trailing and dribbling across his neck, spotting the white of his suit coat with blood. Bruce didn't seem fazed—he clutched onto the side of his face with a defiant glare, even while Rachel felt as if she would collapse at any moment, felt the dread emanating throughout the room in waves. The Joker was chuckling, wiping the bloodied knife against a green sleeve,

"Now, now, _Brucey-boy_, you're looking a tad sloppy. Wouldn't want to, ah…_bleed _us all of your _charming_ good looks."

He raised his brows as he spoke, the mocking leer an upturned gash against his white face. Rachel's mind couldn't function against the panic; she pushed forward against the Joker's grip, senselessly, only wanting this to _stop_, and found herself snarling in bursting fury as the Joker's hand merely clenched with harder force upon her hair and pulled her so roughly she felt as if her neck would break.

"_Stop it, _you fucking prick!" Rachel hissed against the obvious pain in her voice; an entire half of Bruce's face was drenched in blood, now, red and slippery.

With a bitterly amused glance in her direction, the Joker cackled to her shivering form as if they were sharing their own personal joke. And in a way, they _were—_they both knew that Bruce would die, convinced to let her go or not. They both knew that he had signed away his own fate by his protests, by his intimate relationship with Rachel, and because of this realization she felt a soft whimper tug at her lips with unconscious force. He _heard_ it—his ears seemed to perk and his twisted grin widened, yet his attention was still rapt upon the blood that coursed along Bruce's wounded face, as if carnally absorbed by the stream of red.

She couldn't take this anymore. Rachel began to fear she would scream in pure, frustrated terror, in the rage that boiled in her heart, seething over with her desire to put an end to Bruce's suffering and hurt this man that was wreaking havoc upon the people she _loved_.

"Oh, no, no no no _no-ooo_! That's not how you _beg_, Rachel, that's not how you do it _at all_. You see, I don't stop. I _never_ stop," A glint in his eye as he spoke, twirling the knife in his hand as if considering which area of Bruce's face to slash at next, "I could just go on doing this _forever_, you see, because I enjoy it so very much! Batman is always the one to stop _all my fun,_ you know..."

Eyes wide and excited, he leaned forward, and she could imagine his hot breath on Bruce's face. Rachel watched with unshed tears as the Joker loomed so close to the unmasked vigilante that when he raised his knife again to Bruce's unharmed cheek, it was already digging painfully into his flesh, breaking at the surface of skin,

"But he's not here right now, is he?"

His voice was almost a whisper as he spoke the words, and for one horrible instant Rachel thought the Joker knew that the man he was torturing _was_ Batman. But that couldn't be, if only because it was too horrific to imagine. Bruce was still sitting as still as possible, their eyes boring into the other's in the most primal of loathing,

"_Is_ he?!" The Joker barked, then, and cut another gash across the previously unharmed cheek, thin and long and dripping.

He pulled himself from Bruce's form, snickering at the flash of pain in the man's eyes while turning again to examine the blood splattered upon his blade, as if it were an object of his proud handiwork. Rachel watched him as he gazed upon her from the corner of his eye, unable to contain the fear and white-hot anger that flashed across her face. She spoke, then, hating the Joker for what she was forced to say, for the words of false comfort that tugged upon her lips,

"Just let me go, Bruce…it's okay. Batman will come. _Batman_ will save me."

A giggle burst from the upturned, sneering mouth, and he wiped the blood of his blade on Bruce's pant leg, the bleeding vigilante's lip curled as if he ached to lash out right there and then. He gazed relentlessly into Rachel's eyes at her words, his face unreadable even if unmarred by blood; indescribable, the powerlessness that lay there, like nothing she had ever seen upon a face that had always been in so much control.

"That's _right_, beautiful," The Joker crooned in mock agreement, his knife upper-cutting the air as if in a salute, "The _Batman_ will come and save us all! Just like how he saved _Smarvey Harvey, _wired to those bombs. _Just_ how he saved _you_ on the other end!"

Another private joke, a vicious irony gleaming in his eyes as he jabbed the knife towards her with his final, painful words. They cut her like no physical attack could cut, its serrated edge infectious and stinging as it tore through her. Bruce watched her uneasily, now, as she felt the betrayal returning, unwanted and unbidden, to her mind, burning in the back of her throat. It intermingled with the panic, so dreadfully _wrong _yet so strong amidst her mind's disarray.

He knew, now. He knew the Joker had told her of his decision to save Harvey and let her die—she could see it in his desperate stare, in the blood-caked pleading, could feel it in the way her heart wrenched stubbornly amidst the fear she had just suffered for him. And yet _he_ was the one suffering, now, the one being tortured, the one so desperately in need of help it almost disgusted her.

Anger—for who? Anger towards the Joker, who was hurting them both now; she, mentally, him, physically? Or anger returning from its dormant state, aimed towards Batman—_Bruce_? But it _wasn't_ the time for that, for those emotions that the Joker stirred with his barrage of truths, it wasn't _right_ for her anger to come at Batman of all people, when he was sitting before her, being victimized. When they _needed_ him.

"Batman _did _save me," She found herself hissing in protest, unable to contain her anger any longer, "And he'll make sure you get yours."

The Joker watched her, his face darkening for a moment, then upturned in a series of excited giggles,

"_Really?!_ Well clearly he's abandoning you all at the moment, _hmm?_"

He turned towards her, forgetting about Bruce; just as she had intended, his blade slicing in a diagonal arc through the air, dangerously close to her body, "Not so confident when the Bat isn't here to defend _every little _powerless person in this room, eh? Where is he now, flying about and waiting to pick up the bodies once I'm_ finished_?! Even…" His laughter had been bubbling and was too strong to be contained, now; he paused and brought the back of his hand up towards his mouth, as if to curb his hysterics, "Even the _police_ force is locked up here, defenseless and stupid! We need a—a _bat_ to save us, a criminal _just like me_! And he's not even here—_hilarious!_"

He clutched upon his torso, doubled over with laughter—Rachel writhed in his grip, fighting the urge to kick him right then and there. Bruce was growling in anger at the Joker's words, at his insults, at his taunts; and it was then that the heavy doors began to shake and shudder, angry slamming and shouting on the other end. A wrenched cry of hope twisted in Rachel's throat as she stared at the double doors, heard the determined shouts on the other end.

The Joker himself stopped laughing, head snapping upwards as he paused to glare at the doors with furrowed brows. The pounding continued, some strong force on the other end—a heavy object, a projectile of some sort—threatening to break the hinges apart. Gasps and cries of desperation flew across the crowd, and the madman who had been interrupted yet again began to scowl.

"Seems my party has to be put on _hold_," He hissed in annoyance, appearing sincerely disappointed, "Well, you've all been a _wonderful _crowd, but more victims are beckoning, and—oh, _Brucey,_ why the long face?"

Rachel gasped at the Joker's words as realization struck her like a blunt force. This wasn't over.

Of course not.

There were still a few minutes before the SWAT team undoubtedly behind the doorway could get through—he would have his fun, and he would make sure it _killed_. With a growl, Bruce kept his gaze still as the Joker skipped towards him; the smuggest smile perched upon his face,

"You see…I wasn't finished with my story! But I'll tell it a little differently—the short, altered version of it, since we're running low on time and, you know, you've been _such_ a good little guest." He patted Bruce's cheeks, staining his gloves red, the force of contact stinging against Bruce's bleeding face, and raised his knife to the side of his mouth.

Rachel's body froze; she whimpered openly, now, pleading quietly. God, she was _pleading_.

"No," She hissed quietly against the Joker's seemingly oblivious frame, "No, no, _no_!"

He ignored her, so wrapped up in his own pleasure, as he cleared his throat theatrically and began to speak,

"I got _these _scars…when I was a, ah, younger lad. I worked night-shift jobs for bosses like Maroni, I was so..._desperate _for some money for my family, for my abusive parents. But the boss didn't _like_ me, I'm afraid, because whenever he'd try and get me to listen to him, I'd be so…_disrespectful,_ so bitter and angry and always _frowning_. And so, he pinned me to a chair, tied me up real tight, and he brought a butcher knife to my face. And he said, _holding_ the knife in my mouth—"

He then pressed the knife against the inside of Bruce's mouth, Rachel's body quivering so violently she felt her knees would give in at any moment. Bruce was still quiet, making no sign of fear whatsoever—the Joker nodded, grinning, and began to bark,

"_Why so serious,_ boy?! And then he flicked the knife in my mouth and said, _I just want you to smile_, so _smile_!—And he stabbed me right…_here!"_

With breakneck speed, the knife flew from Bruce's mouth to stab straight into his chest, twisting and ripping a diagonal line across his torso.

_No._

"No! Bruce! _BRUCE_!"

Rachel could do nothing but scream, her eyes wide and her mind panicked beyond coherent thought. She screamed and screamed as Bruce slumped against his wired seat, his eyes glazed, hands grabbing at his torn torso as if to hold the blood back that seeped and oozed thickly across his reddened shirt; screamed as the Joker laughed hysterically even then, throwing her backwards across the floor and rushing across the room just as the door began to break open and the SWAT team rushed through; screamed even long after the he disappeared, the wire bombs found and cut away.

The room had been spinning, sickeningly, violently fast; she remembered scrabbling for him as they pulled him away, the never-ending scream tearing through her mind, her body, never seeming to stop, even when her throat was raw and she was gathered up in an incoherent pile on the ground.

_Weak,_ her mind hissed darkly amidst the flickering of her consciousness, as she clutched upon her shaking knees, _Bait. Nothing but bait._

Hands were pulling her to her feet—_just hurt me too, just cut me up, cut me up like all the rest—_carrying her across the room that was now empty, forlorn.

Her body felt limp and lax against Gordon's grip. She remembered watching the stretcher that carried Bruce's body along the same path as it wheeled quickly across the hall, the people pulling him frantic and shouting—with a slow, jerky movement she held her hand out to the stretcher that was now gone, held it out even as it grew smaller, smaller in her rampant thoughts, before swallowed up completely by the darkness of another possible collapse. Gordon was holding her more firmly, then, shouting garbled words into her ear; _it's all right now, it's okay, everything will be fine, you need to lie down and recuperate you need to rest—_

She wouldn't let Gordon take her anywhere. Rachel remembered shaking her head adamantly at all of his pleas, his coercions, even when he took her to the hospital despite this, sitting her down and talking as calmly as he could.

Somehow she found she was conscious, now, somewhat alert. It had felt like a dream, but it _wasn't_, not when it hurt so badly. When did they get here? What time was it? She was shuddering beneath the penetrating cold, the chills that swept her spine, struggling to focus, to adjust to the world of sanity, of clarity.

She had a blanket wrapped around her. She didn't know where it came from. All she knew was that it was suddenly heavy, suffocating, scorching on her skin. Gordon was sitting at the chair near hers, in the hallway just near the room Bruce had been taken into, watching her with earnest sympathy, his hands running across his hair, his face, glasses askew against his hands,

"Bruce will be fine, Rachel. He'll need some time in the hospital, of course, but it will only be a little while. He'll refuse to stay any longer than a day. He's a strong man. There's nothing to worry about."

He patted her hand carefully, a smile plastered upon his worry-wrinkled eyes. Rachel could see the hypocrisy behind that gaze; the unspoken words, the lingering sense of betrayal that even she still felt.

_Batman didn't come save us because Batman is the one who being tortured_. _Even vigilantes can bleed, can nearly die. Even they can be powerless…_

Gordon sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose at her lack of response. She felt like a criminal, being interrogated—first Bruce, now this. She found herself tracing empty patterns along her blanketed lap, imagining that knife that had been in _his_ hands so shortly before, memorizing their movements, their strokes…

_Chill isn't the same. He never was. He didn't go after _your loved ones_, Bruce, after slaughtering your parents._

Mentally she chided him, though she knew he would never hear; her fingers still traced the invisible patterns of knife lines against the beige surface, imagining the solid mass as skin; stark-white and bloodied by her touch. He'd never be able to hurt anyone again, never be able to cause them all so much _pain_.

_If Chill hadn't stopped at your parents, Bruce…if he had gone on slaughtering Alfred, myself…_

Her fist clenched and struck the wall behind her, so abruptly and forcefully that Gordon jumped upwards. For a sickening moment, Rachel felt a vicious satisfaction, imagining her undoubtedly bruising knuckles as that knife striking the final blow in that hideously mirthful _face_, putting it to silence.

Beautiful, wonderful silence.

"Gordon. "

She was whispering, the edge of desperation in her voice surprising her. When had she sounded so…_sickly, _as if her voice were wrenched in a sob?

The Commissioner stiffened for a moment, eyeing her warily. Of course, he would have reduced any of her actions now and in the past hour as hysteria; by-products of chaos, panic, shock. Maybe it _was_ hysteria that shook her now, that unnerved her to the point of terrible, violent urges.

_I was never this way…I never wanted to hurt anyone. I never wanted—I just wanted _justice,_ didn't I? What is this? What do I do to someone I can't prosecute, someone who won't _stop…

She knew the answer. Her blood sang it in her veins, hardened with adrenaline. Her mind, twisted and distraught, assaulted her with images of cold, raw vengeance, of blood and fire and destruction, ending the cries and screams of Gotham with the crying of the Joker himself…

Impossible. Yet she _ached_ for it. She needed it, more than ever, needed to know that Bruce's wounds could be reciprocated. That Harvey's body, lost and destroyed, could be justified with another body destroyed in its wake. Of course she wouldn't be strong enough, of course it wasn't the _right_ thing, especially in the exhausted eyes of the man before her. The tortured Commissioner, hurt because he couldn't do what even Batman refused to do, could never _end_ the suffering that gripped Gotham in its unrelenting fist because they could never end the lives of those who threatened it—

The words formed on her lips before she could stop them.

"I can't sit here anymore. I can't sit here and wait for him to kill again, to massacre everyone with all of us just doing _nothing_…"

Her plea was stopped short. Gordon interrupted swiftly, his worry intensifying at what could only be, on her part, sudden dementia,

"Waiting is _all _you can do, Rachel. You're the newest D.A., of these criminals would be after you. Of course you'd be afraid. We'll move you to a new location, we'll protect you."

Rachel's nails dug into the arm of her chair, pressing her body weight against its surface. How many people would she have to persuade to take her seriously, to not interpret her words as a sign of panicked weakness? How many people would keep labeling her as needing _protection_, when her life truly had no matter in the balance of Gotham's fate? D.A. was a position that was interchangeable, its title bearers easily replaced—Batman was not. Commissioner Gordon was not.

If anything, Harvey's death had been expected, soon enough. There was never a D.A. that lasted long in Gotham. Hers would be expected as well—mourned even less. Almost _harmless, _in the darkest way possible.

She wanted to protect _them_. If she had to, she would sacrifice herself. She would fight back with the inevitable outcome that she would die. What other choice did they _have?_

_When everything goes according to plan, you're all happy with your bloodshed._

The high-pitched voice haunted her thoughts, thoughts that lay curled within her subconscious like a snake slithering through cranial nerves, adamantly coiled no matter how desperately she tried to rid herself of its presence.

"I don't want to be protected," Rachel found herself saying, her frustration seeking the proper words to embody even as it threatened to seethe and burst, "I'm not the one needing protection. Can't you _see_, Gordon? Can't you see what he's _doing?_ We'll give him what he wants, and he'll stop, and it will be okay again. If I don't give myself up, then Gotham will continue—"

"Rachel, you're not in the best state of mind right now. We have it under control; we're not going to give into this madman. Just calm down, and relax. You don't need to die for anyone."

He had interrupted her again, waving her frantic words away as frivolous overreaction. She squeezed her eyes shut and gnashed her teeth together in her mouth—in the back of her mind, she heard mocking, cruel laughter. By this time she was sure her little conversation with Gordon was attracting curious onlookers, yet she didn't really care.

She would be leaving here soon; anyway, she would be going back to her apartment. Yes, she was going to go back, uncaring if the Joker knew her address, consciously blindsided by the anger which she knew was crippling her. Bruce would have been shaking her by now, if he wasn't lying inert in the room across from their hunched bodies, telling her she was foolish, that she needed to get a hold of herself.

_Get a hold of yourself._

But what was there left to get a hold of in the first place?

"You're right," She said suddenly, her eyes fixed upon the closed door of Bruce's room rather than Gordon's face, "I don't need to die. I can always defend myself."

Before the meaning of her words could register, she continued, holding a feeble hand out as if to beg. Her words, however, came out in aggressive command,

"The best thing you could do right now, is give me your gun."

Rachel was silent after, her eyes flicking towards his to gauge his reaction. Gordon paused and stared at her, incredulous. It was almost funny, the way he looked at her, as if she were a child who wanted a bazooka for her birthday.

"Rachel, you're in shock right now. You're not capable of making any rational decision, we both know this. If I did that—"

"Do you _want_ another dead D.A.?! Do you want me to be defenseless if he finds me?! Your police force is useless now, filled with mobsters. Give me your gun!"

Her voice was a roar; passing nurses were staring, some visibly panicked by the mention of "gun." Gordon snapped his head and glared at the surrounding hospital personnel, causing them to immediately quiet and look the other way.

Deep down, he knew she was right. He had to agree. There would be no way Gordon could ensure her protection, especially with crooked cops running about, acting as double-agents for the mob. Yet he still protested, still used his feeble logic, if only to prevent another death he was powerless to stop.

"Rachel, this isn't the best course of action…we both know that. Even if some of my men are…questionable in whom they're working for, it's better to take that chance than to have you unguarded and handling a gun you may not even know how to _use_."

"Really?" She asked automatically, as if her mouth were mechanically controlled by her own bitterness, "Is that how it worked for Harvey, too, when your _men_ wired him up to all those oil drums?"

As she said this, one of the two policemen that were pacing quietly near Gordon froze. Rachel could make out the way her mouth twitched, the way her head lowered. Officer Ramirez, wasn't it? Gordon, unaware of the officer's sudden sign of discomfort sighed heavily and watched Rachel through the slits between his hands,

"Listen, Rachel. I'd appreciate it if you didn't insult my officers, even if I don't currently know which ones are loyal. We're doing the best we can to sort them out and I don't need your goading because it certainly won't boost our morale or make it any easier. Now, I understand that you're afraid, because we're all afraid…but we're not going to do anything we'll regret later. We need to keep things rational in an irrational time."

He watched her with desperation, silently begging her to concede to his words. Her insides wrenched painfully as if being squeezed to the point of implosion. Slowly his hand pushed forward to curl her outstretched fingers shut, yet she flinched and pushed her hand away before he could touch her. Rachel didn't need any comfort in the face of this new rejection; it failed to change anything.

"I'm sorry, Rachel."

Gordon patted her shoulder, as if still aching to touch her, as if it were some act of repentance on his part for all the tragedies they had just suffered. He pulled himself to his feet and began to walk down the corridor, his weariness evident in the slow-paced slouch of his steps. She was alone, now, sitting in front of Bruce's room, waiting impatiently for her chance to hear that he would be all right.

She just wanted to _see_ him.

She buried her face in her hands, struggling to maintain her battered composure, if only to think through what she could possibly do next. She was unarmed, Batman was temporarily _gone_, Gordon was uncooperative, and she could either sleep in the hospital or in her apartment…two places which both lay exposed and unprotected despite any amount of officer stationed before them. The only safe place was Bruce's home, and even Bruce wouldn't be there tonight.

_And I can't trust anyone anymore to help me. All Gotham cares about is saving its own hide._

In her panic, the words of a madman's reasoning resonated through her head, that slithering snake coiled deep within her hissing its venom within her mind, words that could never possibly make any coherent sense,

_You're all out for __yourselves__, but you don't really know it yet, not until you're put in a situation._

God, there was no _escape_, was there?

Footsteps stopped before her, and she caught the sight of the navy blue of a uniform. Rachel's breath hitched; she swept her eyes upward, and at Ramirez's expressionless face her body stiffened, a snarl at the edge of her voice,

"You—"

"_Listen_," Ramirez said quickly, raising her hands and lowering her head to Rachel's level, her voice deathly quiet, "I know you know what I did. And as much as you may want to scream at me right now, tell Gordon all this shit was my fault, I'm telling you right now that I had no idea what was going to happen and I didn't _mean _to do it…"

"Didn't mean to do it? You didn't mean to get my fiancée killed?" Rachel shot back, her voice just as quiet as Ramirez's yet edged with sharp hostility.

The female officer sighed in obvious exasperation, though Rachel couldn't quite figure out why she could expect anything else from her at this point. Did she want her to accept her apology, to wave it off and laugh like it was a misunderstanding? Just to clear her pathetic little conscience, despite the life her actions had cost?

"Look, I didn't know the mob and…and…" Ramirez stopped short at the Joker's name, choosing to side-step it, "_him_, were going to hurt you two. I swear. I just…he _threatened_ me, and—"

Her words fell mute on Rachel's ears. She could feel the murderous glare without even willingly inflicting it upon the crooked cop; it was a habit, now, to glare like this. Only a week ago she would have smiled at everyone, at all the people she had always assumed to be trustworthy, kind-hearted. Funny how things could twist themselves so quickly.

"Cut the crap," Rachel sighed instead, and went to lower her head dismissively, "Nothing you say can justify all this. Gotham is upside-down and you're one of the reasons why."

Ramirez cursed beneath her breath. At first she took it as an angry response to her words, but Rachel was surprised to find the feeling of cold metal against her fingertips. Her head snapped upwards to meet the woman's gaze, which was expressionless as she pushed the gun into the D.A.'s lap.

"Just take this as an apology for something I can't fix. And if you _still_ want to rip my face off…then feel free."

Rachel gripped the gun and pocketed it in her overcoat before any passing eyes could see; within an instant Ramirez had her back turned and was walking away, as if their conversation had never happened. A twisted snarl of both bewilderment and hatred grazed the back of her throat.

The cowardly _bitch_. Helping her only to clear her own name.

_Once a crooked cop, always a crooked cop._

Yet at the moment, it didn't matter. She had a gun. Her thoughts became a little calmer, a little less mangled and chaotic, a little more _hers _again. As the D.A. traced the solid form within her jacket, she waited with renewed patience for her admittance into Bruce's room. She would sit out here all night, if that's how long it took her.

For now, she was a little less defenseless.

A little less afraid.

And when the night was over, she would have her little chat with the Joker.


	6. Six: Trap

**Author's Note:**

Crap. I got too into this chapter, I think, because I actually finished it last night, not long after Chapter 5. I didn't feel like posting it until this afternoon, though…but I was just as anxious to post it as you guys (I'm hoping) were to read it aldkfasdfl and here it is. Things just get more twisted from here on, folks. And I'm pretty sure a bunch of you are going to want to kill me for the end of this chapter, hah, but I promise I'll redeem myself and it will turn out fine…(well, sort of.)

But yes. Joker and Rachel have a little, erm…"chat," like he's wanted for so long, and…stuff gets interesting, I guess. Ahh, just read it already! :)

Individual thank-you's/review replies:

Kendra Luehr: omg THANK YOU SO MUCH it makes me so happy that you like my 'fic that much : D Yours is one of my faves too without a doubt! And yes, it was incredibly hard not to make the last chapter extra-long and put the (read: at least 7 pages long plus!?) chat with Mr. J right after…but it's here and it's extremely long and was really fun to write lol. Except he's much more twisted than humorous at this point…well you'll see when you read lol. I'm glad Rachel seems in character still, that makes me happy since I wasn't so sure…

And lol I actually think I suck at actual action, like when it comes to close combat…I would have no idea what to write at all. I'd probably just be like kickpunchslapbite, it's pretty bad haha. But thank you so much though omg :D

Xheartxcorex: Yes Rachel was uber-bitch! Haha. But somehow I think Ramirez deserves it especially…God, do I hate her character. I was so miffed when Two-Face didn't kill her in the movie lol.

Gema227: Thank you so much for all your kind reviews, you definitely made my night! Haha and I think you convinced me for the most part to include a sex scene with Rachel/Joker, as insane as it would end up being :) I was pretty upset at Rachel's lack of fleshed-out character in both Batman Begins and The Dark Knight even though the other characters (well, the non-villains) went through lots of development…and she just died. Definitely didn't seem fair to make her character so one-sided and "damsel in distress"-like, especially when she showed signs of being able to fight back within both movies…so of course it's fun to expand on that. :)

Another giant THANK YOU to alert-ers and fave-ers. You guys rock.

So yes…read, read, read! And as always let me know what you think :)

Love you all. (And please don't hate me for the way this ends…not too much, at least. Heh.)

* * *

**Dark Humor**

**Six**

_Justice is balance._

_--Ra's Al Ghul_

* * *

"Hey, you."

It sounded pathetic coming from her lips, but as Rachel stared down at Bruce's moon-pale face against the equally white sheets of his bed, laying her fingers upon a scarred cheek, it was the only thing she could really say. He responded with a quiet grunt at first, opening his eyes lazily to gaze up at her—then, with dawning consciousness and recognition, a smile tugged at his handsome features.

She bit back a laugh as Bruce moved himself upwards, as if making to hug her, and frowned at the realization that he was hooked to hospital equipment. Even when he was injured, he still tried to be the powerful one—the damn _showoff_. God, she had missed him so much in those horrific hours she thought she had lost him. If Rachel were younger, more naïve, perhaps, she would be crying right now, yet she knew better. Her heart was too hard at that point; and anyway, crying in front of the Batman seemed a tad _childish_ when the thought crossed her mind.

Instead of struggling against his bonds, Bruce settled for a fleetingly calm smile,

"Hey, Rach."

He was probably sedated, he seemed so peaceful. When was the last time he had called her _Rach?_

She mirrored his grin despite herself, hovering over his still frame with her arms crossed casually before her,

"It's about time you woke up. You were worrying us."

He rolled his eyes playfully, innocence bursting from each movement he made.

_Like a child._

He seemed so vulnerable, then…a child vigilante, so secure in his undying hope for the world. In the hope that she had once had, just as strongly as his own, before it died away within a week. Maybe she hadn't quite believed in the world as much as she would have liked to admit. But when he spoke again, she felt compelled for one moment to share his beliefs, his playfulness, his naivety, if only because she had just been so close to losing him.

"Please. A few…flesh wounds aren't enough to bring me down. You know that."

He was rustling against the sheets of his hospital bed as he spoke, as if struggling to find a comfortable position. She could see the restless twitch in his eyes, could read his extreme aversion to being held captive in this room under caretakers that were not Alfred, something he would have openly disputed had his wounds not hindered his consciousness. Rachel fought the urge to stare at his torso, where she knew the wound that could have nearly killed him lay, wrapped up beneath layers of bandages.

Would it simply become a long scar, another in the vast collection of the canvas of pain and never healing wounds that was the body of Bruce Wayne—of the Batman? When would there be a time when one of those wounds was final, never able to be sealed by artificial means, bleeding forever until Batman was bled dry?

She didn't want to know. She didn't want to _have_ to know.

"Yeah," Rachel lied jovially, her eyes meeting his, drawing some sort of comfort from his steady gaze in only the way his gaze could, "I know, Bruce. I know."

She reached out and clasped his hand tightly, as if wanting to feel the substance of him, the solid mass that was his body, intact and _alive_.

"How much longer are you going to stay here?" She asked him quietly, knowing the answer before he said it.

Predictably, he took her worried face in and smiled again, reassuringly,

"Tomorrow morning, then I'm gone."

"Bruce, you mean to recover for a week in your mansion?"

Her words were skeptical, and he could sense it. She had her head turned, if only so she wouldn't have to see the pang of guilt in his face at her immense worry,

"You know I can't sit still for a week. Not when we have lunatics running across Gotham, without anyone to protect it."

_Goddamn his stubbornness. _

She sighed wearily, her fingers tightening on Bruce's hand. He was being ridiculous, but she was accustomed to it. It was only when she had actually seen him as weak, in a state near death, that she had taken her desire to persuade him to be rational more seriously.

"Bruce, you didn't have to protect me earlier tonight. You could have gotten out of this unharmed."

Bruce's soft smile faded; he watched her now with a more penetrating stare than before, as if struggling in vain to read her thoughts. Rachel's head was turned, yet she felt him burning through her, felt his guilt in rippling waves. It wasn't right for a man as wounded as he to feel guilt for something that had already passed between them, despite how much it jarred their relationship when she was reminded of it.

_The fact that he betrayed you in wanting to save Harvey. _

But he didn't _betray_ her…it was only the logical choice, wasn't it? Gotham's welfare taken into account, mind over heart…

_And you still wish he wouldn't have come for you. So who is there to blame?_

"Rachel, look at me."

She hesitated; yet after a long pause, her eyes met his. She couldn't hold his stare for long. It had always been hard and glittering and filled with emotion, but now it stung her to look at him, at the thin scars that decorated his cheeks, eventually to dissolve into white traces of their present ugly gashes, at the hope that still marred his eyes like the deadliest of wounds on his crumbling being.

Rachel could predict the words that would flow from his mouth, jumbled together almost incoherently from the turbulence in his mind. Bruce had never been one to be eloquent in his speech, regardless of his high status and billionaire-playboy reputation. He may be smooth in some topics of conversation, but when it came to voicing his emotions, it hurt her to think of the way he would strain himself.

"Let's forget about what happened."

She stared at him in genuine surprise, watching him struggle to explain his course of actions in seeking to save Harvey, and failing. But he _shouldn't _explain himself—it was too painful to speak of, to linger on, especially during chaotic times like these. And anyway…why would he logically save her, if she was so…_expendable?_

_Stop thinking like that, damn it. Why torture yourself when a psychopath has already been screwing with you and your life? _

But it was difficult not to, especially with the full weight of Bruce's stare crushing her.

"Forget?" She found herself asking, a little grin playing on her lips, "Forget _what_, now? I remember nothing from the time I walked in, Bruce. Don't be silly."

She did it for his expense, even when her heart still stung from the previous…events she had experienced. It was hard to forget when the guilt still swam behind Bruce's dark eyes, when her memories haunted her as strong as if they were solid and real, when Harvey still haunted the back of her mind, ultimately gone and destroyed, never to return.

She wasn't going to lose Bruce, too. She wasn't going to let her life collapse in on itself, taking others' with it. The gun was heavy in her pocket, now; Rachel welcomed the feeling, knowing soon she would be rid of its weight.

"I guess I'm going to let you rest, now. Don't strain yourself. I'll see you tomorrow."

With a quick, chaste kiss upon her friend's forehead—not for Batman, but for _Bruce, _who lay deep beneath the vigilante's healing body, she turned on her heel and began to walk out. Bruce's hand shot out to grab her elbow, squeezing it quickly as she walked away and forced herself to shoot a small smile over her shoulder.

But as she walked through the doorway, she paused at the frame, doubting he could hear the question that had plagued her all night,

"Who's going to protect you when you need it the most?"

oOo

As she shut and bolted the door to her apartment, she seriously began to question her sanity. Rachel pulled the gun from her overcoat, gazing intently at its sleek surface, wondering exactly how the morning would play out. She was exhausted, however—too exhausted to indulge in such grandeur thoughts as living or dying, of ending Gotham's suffering, of Bruce's pain.

In one hand, she dug out her cell phone, throwing it carelessly upon a desk. She would need it tomorrow to call Harvey's phone which the Joker had maliciously stolen, would need it to bring him to her for their long-awaited "chat." She would use her gun like a coward, she knew, because although she had stood up to many tense situations before, she knew the Joker was manipulative and smart, not some stupid thug out to claim her life.

She couldn't afford to talk to him for long; she was afraid of the repercussions. It wasn't her body—

She was afraid for her mind.

With a sigh, Rachel changed from her tattered black outfit to a simple nightgown, double and triple-checking the bolted door for consistency. Everything was in order, as she pressed the gun securely to her chest, hugging it like a teddy bear, and settled into her small bed. She was safe as long as she wanted to be, at least for tonight.

When she finally drifted off into sleep, she didn't expect it to be an extremely short one.

oOo

"_Hello_, sunshine. It's about time_._ I've been wai-_ting_."

Rachel was sprawled across the couch when she heard the voice.

She froze completely, momentarily blind in the pitch blackness of her apartment, yet her eyes managed to make out the shape of the intruder directly across the couch from where she sat. How did she get to her living room? Her limbs stiffened in instinctive panic yet she jerked them to life as she rapidly scrabbled to her knees and narrowed her eyes at the dark shape.

His words were a mere whisper, yet they still held that constant tone of something _else_, something unsettlingly abnormal. It was as if she could feel the madness quivering within that carefully controlled voice, constantly on the verge of erupting in accordance with his bloodlust. She hadn't expected him to come now, not when she would have called him in the morning, when she would have been ready, prepared—

_That's not how he plays his games, stupid._

Her fingers darted to either side of her, searching the couch rapidly for her gun, cursing a trail beneath her breath. It was then that she heard a clatter on the ground; saw the magazines sprawled across the floor, the dismantled pistol in the figure's hands as he flipped it from palm to palm, as if weighing it, appraising it. Panic bit at the edges of her body, yet she refused to allow it to seep through and distort her judgment. She refused to care that her gun was on the ground again, just like_ before_, refused to give into the weakness he was crippling her with.

"You could have called, so I'd be able to welcome you, at least."

Rachel was surprised at the solid substance of her voice; almost sarcastic, almost hostile. He raised his head, his face blotted out by the abysmal darkness, yet she could sense the grin that stretched across those scarred lips, taunting and amused.

_Like I'm a barking dog before its owner strikes it. Like a child, talking out of turn._

No, that wasn't how it was going to be. She wasn't going to be the lesser of the two, especially when he was in her apartment, struggling as always to make her afraid. _To be in control_.

It seemed an eternity before he replied,

"Well, where's the fun in _that?_ You're so rude, you know, planning on shooting your guests—it's a wonder why you're so, ah…_pop_-u-lar around the most powerful men in Gotham these days, with that violent streak. I can only imagine how you entertain your…lovers."

His brows rose in the darkness, and she prayed he wouldn't see the way her face twisted at his mocking retort, the way her hand trembled with the urge to strike him. Was he armed? Of _course_ he was; she couldn't be that stupid to think he wouldn't have his endless array of knives in his pockets, his mind a weapon in itself. Slowly, as if bracing for the bite of a snarling dog, Rachel found herself pushing towards the side of the couch, if only to place a bit more distance between the two of them.

It didn't seem to work; she could see, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, his penetrating gaze, watching her consistently, relentlessly. It made her feel dirty, violated, like an _object. _Self-consciously, she hugged her arms across her chest, the delayed anger sparking within her yet again in response to his presence.

"That's none of your business, is it?" She replied curtly, her irritation affecting the rising inflection in her voice, "Besides, you've been running around massacring all the men in my life, so it's not like I have any options left."

He pretended to consider this, pausing for a moment as he pulled out a short knife, twisting it from side to side with slow, steady movements. For a moment Rachel thought she could see herself in the reflection of the knife's gleaming edge, obviously sharpened with obscene care.

"_True, _but I'm afraid you'll have to…_thank_ me, for making your life a little more exciting. For making you feel a bit more…a-_live."_

As he spoke, his knife twisted in her direction, a movement that was threatening despite the distance between them. A lump grew in Rachel's throat as she stood her ground against his mockery, his one-sided logic. She wondered if she would have enough strength in her to lunge forward and turn the knife on him, yet she wasn't a fool; he probably anticipated this, probably welcomed it.

How much longer could she extend her lifespan by simple small-talk? As long as he was the initiator, as long as she feigned interest in his senseless, insane babbling…

"What are you talking about? You've only made it worse. You've made me—"

Her mouth shut forcefully as the word lingered on her lips, as if she were saying too much.

What was she going to say, despite herself?

_Angry? Violent? Vengeful? Spiteful? Want to kill you?_

The Joker's head cocked to one side, lolling almost lazily against his shoulder, obviously rapt with attention to every word that came from his tortured subject's lips.

_Or maybe he's trying to figure out which side of my face to carve first._

"Made you _what?_ If anything, I'd say I brought you out of _hiding_."

A smug smirk formed a cut upon his face, fresh and red and bloody in the lack of light. The lipstick almost glowed with the simplicity of his words, words which propelled her to throw herself forward if only to end the talk and commence the slaughter.

_My slaughter, rather than his, because _I'm_ the unarmed one. _

"I'm not hiding from anyone," She replied stupidly, her voice a whisper. It was an automatic reaction, some sort of defense mechanism—utterly foolish in front of such a twisted being, but still instinctively _there_, if only to defend herself against his barrage of accusations.

Her words aroused a giggle; low and drawn and amused. The knife in his hands gleamed as he ran it across the leather of her couch arm, scratching long lines across its body.

_Impulse, or planned intimidation?_

There was no use in trying to figure it out—the Joker was a goddamned mystery in everything but his need to kill.

"_Really?_ You're not? You're not hiding behind that stupid title, pretending you don't _want_ to jump from that couch and strangle me this very second? You're not.._pretending_ to enforce your useless _high, moral ethics_ every single day of your _life_, when you've almost shot me down…_twice_, now?"

His voice grew more intense as he spoke, the undertone of constant aggression like the hissing of that snake so deeply coiled between her ribs at that very moment. He thirsted to hurt, to inflict _pain_, just as she wanted to hurt him right then. The thought repulsed her, disgusted her—yet she couldn't deny the parallel urge in his eyes, if more sadistic, more blind and reckless for the madman.

Rachel's fingers bit the leather of her furniture as he continued toying with his knife, carving with a steady hand as if it were flesh. She could see the restraint within the gloved digits, the careful exertion of exact pressure to as not to pierce through the object and tear it apart. It was something he had learned with _practice_, with skin rather than stronger leather, something much more easily breakable.

"I have a right to want to kill you."

Why was it so difficult to make herself sound a little more _sane_ in front of him? Her words burned as they left her throat, sharp enough to cut the air with her tongue alone. But she couldn't _help_ it; maybe it was the lingering dementia, maybe it was her situation at the moment, of being a _fucking captive_ in her own room. Maybe it was the still-painful loss of Harvey that tore her apart with every forceful breath she took. She couldn't help but be vicious, angry, chaotic.

The knife stopped as it curved upwards to leave more white scars against the leather. In the blink of an eye, its tip stabbed through the arm, the impossibly sharp point wrenched deeply through the surface. She almost expected to hear a scream, to see blood gush from an opened wound. The gloved hands pulled themselves away from the sharp object for a moment, folding with surprising calm across his lap.

It frightened her the most when he was calm. For some reason, it was much easier to shout and verbally argue with criminals, especially the sadistic ones, even to be battered by them _physically_, than to endure the unresponsive calm this man relentlessly emitted. Calmness meant he was not threatened in the least; it meant he saw himself as in the utmost position of power. It meant he was gathering strength, it meant that all the violence and aggression was boiling within him, to the point of unwanted explosion.

He was in his element, even now. She was playing into his hands, and she couldn't help it.

_Maybe justice is equal to insanity, and he's been the sane one, all along._

Dark mirth flooded her body, threatened to burst from her lips in sadistic, bitter laughter. She wanted to scream against the urge, knowing her helplessness was what offset this panic, her aggression was what quenched his thirst, what satisfied him. Helpless again. It was almost redundant.

He disrupted her thoughts as his head cocked lazily in the opposite direction, and his eyes bored throughout her in the darkness, two holes of night threatening to devour her.

"Oh, you have _every_ right to want to kill me, Rachel. I…and _every-_one else who made you suffer. Now, my question is…"

He was leaning forward in her seat, the abysmal eyes looming closer, the snake-like tongue flicking outward momentarily as he spoke,

"…Why _don't_ you? Why don't you just _kill_ the people most responsible for your…_Smarvey's_ death, why don't you bring them your warped little sense of _just-_ice, because we _know_ Gordon will refuse to? Why don't you just get up and kill me _right now…_ if that's what you really _want?_"

Unbidden, the provocation jerked life into her limbs. As if on his command, Rachel found herself standing from her position on the couch, eyeing him warily as he continued to sit, as if unfazed by her movements.

_A snake, coiled and ready to attack. _

She had no weapons. Her eyes darted to the knife wedged along his side for a moment, and he followed her gaze and chuckled harshly,

"That's not how you play the _game, _girl. You want…to _fool_ me, don't you? To make me _think_ you're less of a defenseless little _toy_ than you actually are?"

The words bit her, sharp and venomous. Her eyes narrowed and she could see his smile widening in the darkness, a glowing jack-o-lantern against the night. She was walking, for some reason; contemplating on whether to take his words seriously, on whether to actually try and _hurt _him when his knife lay right next to him, when he could reach over and stab her before she could blink her eyes.

_Trap. Of course. It's always a fucking trap._

"Why didn't you tie me up?" Her voice echoed across the room as she stared at the sitting figure before her with growing suspicion and wariness.

Another chuckle from the darkness, as if it had come from nowhere.

"Why would I tie up my host…unless you _preferred_ it that way?" She could imagine the Joker quirking his brow, a smile playing on his lips, "But I don't need to tie you up to have a chat, do I? _No_, not for someone as violent as you, someone who reminds me so much of myself. _No,_ you'd be less…cooperative in your_ restraints_."

"I'm nothing like you," She whispered in a low, scathing hiss.

An amused giggle. His black eyes seemed to shine.

"Oh, is that so? Let me tell you something, Miss _Dawes_. Gordon and the _Bat_ wouldn't kill me if they had the chance, but you—you _live_ for it! This is the only reason you have to _live_ since your dear old Harvey died, your sick, _twisted_ little ob-_sess_-ion, and don't lie and say otherwise. I can read people better than they can read them_selves_. And you're just _dying _to do it right now, aren't you?"

No. He wanted her to nod her head, yet she stood there, unresponsive, realizing he would take her silence as an assent as well. The giggle intensified into a cackle, one of deep, immense entertainment,

"I've got Gotham in the palm of my _hand,_ you know," He reminded her casually, placing his arms behind his head and leaning into the couch, "There isn't a person who doesn't _fear_ me, who doesn't…loathe me in that horribly _wonder_ful way in which they all want to make me _bleed_."

Pure pleasure coated his voice like sugar; he was practically _cooing,_ the way he spoke, and Rachel could only stand and listen, for once transfixed on this man's sadistic words. He continued after a short pause, raising his head to gaze straight at her—she turned her head away, staring resolutely down at the carpet where her dismantled gun lay, and he giggled at her reaction,

"I _love _that, the way they try to pretend they're not like…us. Not at _our_ level. But give them a…a…" He gestured down at the battered pistol lying in a black mark against the carpet, "…a _gun,_ or a _knife,_ and see how much they'd love to make me squirm! Does that go with justice, with the _Gotham way, _miss D.A.?"

He was wagging a finger at her now, the taunting edge to his voice, as if daring her to contradict what he spoke with such astonishing honesty. Because his words rang with such startling clarity in her head, because it disgusted her so immensely to find herself almost…_agreeing_ with him, she began to lose her careful composure, allowing the anger to affect her to all the Joker's delight,

"I'm nowhere near _your level,_ and neither is the rest of Gotham! We don't go around killing just for the fun of it, we don't torment each other and torture and…"

She knew her argument was worthless even when she began to speak. How could she reason with a madman? How could she try and win this useless verbal rapport when this night would end in blood, whether it be hers or—much less possibly—his?

"Oh, but you _do._ Mentally, you all do—I just don't…in_hibit_ myself. I don't live by rules, because the only sensible way is living _without_ rules. You know how they restrain you, beautiful…you know right now by the look on your face, the way you want to slice me open with my knife and make me just _shut up, don't you?!_"

His words were a near-shout, ending with a loud, long torrent of laughter. He was reading her mind, reading it through the way her hands were balled against her hips, the way her lip quivered, the way her eyes burned with the lingering image of him still _alive_ before her.

"No," She found herself almost crying stubbornly, uselessly arguing, if only to retain those morals that even now, even _she _acknowledged as rapidly crumbling before her when she tried her hardest to keep them solid, "No, that's not _true!_ I'm not at your level because I don't _kill_,and I don't want…"

"No? _No?!_" A burst of cackling erupted from his mouth, so loud she was frightened the entire apartment building would awaken, "But you just said you _wanted_ to kill me! Oh, you make no _sense,_ Rachel, with your self-contradictions and your stupid stubborn _morals_ that you don't even fucking _believe_ in anymore! All of that shit…all of it _died _when Harvey died, don't you see? Gotham never had _morals_. All it had was a fake shell of hope, a chain of human lives that they just fucking _sacrifice_ over and over to try and justify themselves, to try and prove that they're not all animals, that they're just being _victimized_…"

His excitement was so intense his voice was shaking, a gloved hand gripping the blade of his knife with such tightness she watched as the skin cut into it, red blooming across the white like blood in milk. She was backing away, ever so slowly, struggling with all her strength to distance herself as far as possible without alerting him to her actions. It was the fear that made her do it, so human and flawed and prevailing with every word from his lips.

"That's not true," she repeated again; stupidly, mechanically, like a little sheep, "You're lying…you're…you're craz—"

"_Crazy?!"_ He screamed the word, and in an instant he was on his feet, the couch upturned against the ground, the knife in his bloodied hand. His chest was heaving, and she was still backing away, through her living room and into the kitchen, her eyes wide and her breath heavy.

The fear stained the air, making it tense and suffocating; he seemed to enjoy it, as he walked slowly forwards, the stretching grin intensified by his deep scars,

"I'm. Not. _Crazy._ I'm the _sanest _one in Gotham!"

He was walking towards her, his knife in hand; she hit her back against her kitchen table, swearing at the familiarity of it, of being trapped again after backing away—_goddamn déjà vu._ He chuckled as she gripped the edges of the object that hindered her, realizing just as she did the cruel irony of the situation. Then, he was grabbing her, his speed surprisingly swift—_like a snake, and now I can't escape—_and she was in his strong grip as if coiled, trapped, his hand squeezing at the delicate muscles in her face, fingers roughly digging into her jaw.

Rachel was staring straight up at him, the rage intensifying, imagining Bruce in the exact same grip, watching the Joker's sadistically amused face and the budding thirst mirror exactly what had crossed it earlier. She wouldn't let him cut her up; somehow, she wouldn't let him see the fear that flickered across her face, jerking her limbs with every throbbing pulse of her heart in her throat.

"_Listen _to me, Rach-_el_. I don't like…_restraining_ you like this, myself. But you've brought it upon yourself, like you always do."

_Naughty girl,_ his voice taunted soundlessly, _you deserve to be punished for your disobedience._

His bloodied finger caressed her lip for a moment, smearing the fluid from his own wound along her mouth. Rachel opened her mouth slightly and wildly thought of biting him; but he saw it in her eyes, withdrew the finger and raised her head so her neck was exposed. Another bloodied digit traced along her throat, leaving another smatter of red like an imprint upon her skin,

"_I know_ what you're thinking right now…you want to fight me, to _hurt_ me. And I can't _fathom _why you don't DO IT!"

His angry shout filled the room as her head connected with the wall behind her; with a sharp crack she was sliding down towards the floor, her back arched against the cabinets and drawers, her eyes blurred with tears of pain and pure hatred. She was pulling herself to her knees, scrabbling frantically, struggling as she heard his footsteps—yet he was on _top_ of her, now, straddling her, and when she twisted her head up to look at him he was leering down with his painted grin, her hair in his hands.

Just like before.

"Now really, _what_ does it take to convince you that your morals aren't going to stop me?! That maybe if your _legal system_ had killed off the mob all this time, your beloved little Har-_vey _would still be alive? That if the _Bat_ wasn't so pathetically fucking _weak…"_

He finished his sentence with the point of his knife against her jugular, his shaking laughter causing it to spasm wildly. Its tip stung as it bit against her skin,

"…_I wouldn't be about to kill you right now._"

He was pushing forward—about to break the flesh, penetrate the vein. The panic rose and possessed her and she couldn't let this _happen, not like this._

He was flicking his wrist, a giggle against his upturned, scarred mouth. Rachel shut her eyes and braced herself—

And then she kneed him in the groin.

He collapsed on top of her, yet she was quick enough to roll to the side, pulling herself to her feet and grabbing frantic hold of the closest knife from the sink on her counter. Her hands shook as he pulled himself, growling, to his knees, gazing at her from the corner of his eye. For a sickening moment she was stunned to see him _smiling, _almost delirious in the ecstasy upon his painted face,

"_Now_ we're talking."

He pulled himself to his feet and lunged for her.

Rachel was fast despite the aching in the back of her head; she sidestepped him as he swiped at her with his dagger, again, licking his lips with open hunger, his eyes wide and lusting beyond reason,

"Doesn't this make you feel _powerful,_ Rachel, the fact that you can stab me any second?! Isn't it _exhilarating?"_

She held the knife readily in her hand, disgusted at the way it filled her body with adrenaline, at the way she was envisioning exactly where to stab with her instinctual urge for self-defense, even as he circled her like a voracious predator, his eyes more deadly than any carnivorous animal she could ever encounter.

But this was _it._ She was so close, so close to ending all of this. She couldn't answer him because she didn't know how to respond—_yes_ frightened her, yet it was what she ached to say, and he could see it as transparent as glass upon her tormented face. He was shaking with impatience, now, in the subtle twitch of the way he held his knife, and she gripped hers more tightly in response.

It was then that her doorbell rang.

Her eyes widened, she was taken aback in surprise—the Joker's leer deepened at the noise, and he watched her expectantly, that disfigured grin on his lips,

"Now I wonder who _that_ is, hmm? Who could it be in the middle of the night?"

"Rachel?!" The voice screamed on the other end of the door, the pounding harder, almost frantic.

Her fingers trembled against the knife; the Joker's own grip seemed to slacken, the flint of his soulless eyes glinting with renewed mirth.

It was Ramirez on the other end, and she was breaking in.

Rachel watched from the corner of her eye as her door began to burst opened on its hinges, the lock crumbling under the strength of a few penetrating bullets. Her knife still steady, she found herself backing away again, a reflex not unnoticed by the Joker's cruel, barking laugh. God, that stupid girl couldn't come in _now,_ not when there was a psychotic killer on the loose in her fucking apartment.

"Now…now's not the best time! Go away! _Please!_" Her voice choked frantically, stupidly, as she glared at the Joker's smug face with crumbling resolve.

Yet the door broke open, anyway, and Ramirez burst into her home, staring wildly about the darkness with her gun before her. She saw both Rachel and the Joker in that instant, her face contorted in some strange, unreadable expression—

And she pointed her gun straight at Rachel.


	7. Seven: Corruption

**AN: ** Hey everyone. Sorry for the wait in updating with this next chapter, it wasn't as easy to write as the others, particularly because it seems more like a transitional chapter between more important ones in regards to plot. It's also a very dark chapter for Rachel and her mental state, and rather short in comparison to the others. I apologize for that; the next will make up for it, I promise (though the Joker will either make a HUGE appearance in the next chapter or very little…haven't decided yet. :) ) I decided to include the Joker/Rachel sex in the future, because I found a way to make it work while keeping them still in character. (Yay!) But since I haven't decided how long I want to make this fanfic, I can't really tell you how many more chapters you'll have to wait until it comes up…but patience is a virtue, right? :)

Individual thank-you's/ review replies:

Shiann Reece: Thank you! :D I'm glad you liked the last three chapters...they were definitely the hardest but the funnest to write, heh. Hope I didn't keep you waiting too long! :)

Gema227: Thank you! Yeah, the speech patterns can be somewhat annoying to keep up with...especially when it comes to the Joker, because it's hard NOT to overdo his "accent" and go overboard, you know?

lpchick303: Thank you sooo much :D Yeah I know what you mean, I also love dark and twisted stories, too...(which is probably why mine seems to be dark and twisted as well lol.)

xxCherryRED: Thank you! I'm glad you think my characterization is up to par. That makes me so happy :)

chasespicer056: Thank you! I'm glad you think so :D I hope I can keep him consistent for you!

xheartxcorex: Haha thank you!! I also enjoyed the Rachel/Joker scene, because I was so excited to type it out. It was the first thing I typed out from this chapter :) I wish the entire fanfic would just be Rachel and Joker talking, chapter by chapter...but that probably wouldn't be as exciting, would it lol

SpiritFanNumber1: Haha, glad you think I'm bad lol :D And thank you! I love cliffhangers, so I tend to over-use them...:)

Kendra Luehr: Thank youuu! Yeah, I loved writing out the Joker/Rachel conversation so very much...and what you said about the future sex scene makes alot of sense, I've taken that into consideration, thanks for helping me out with that suggestion :D I like the idea of a primal-ness between the two of them, I think it's the best way anything Rachel/Joker can work, and be in character at the same time, you know? And I'm really happy you caught onto how the Joker makes sense BECAUSE Rachel is pretty broken at this point...

Update your fic now!! :D Haha

OpenSoulSurgery: Thank you! I'm glad you enjoyed the last two chapters. And yeah, I wasn't going to kill off Bruce...it just seemed to evil even in MY mind. Killing off Batman would definitely just set things wayyy out of balance D: But it was good torture for poor Rachel, no? And... I hate Ramirez so much xD At first I wasn't going to have any more of her in my fanfic except for just...a single scene, but I decided to keep her and use her for my own purposes. :) As much as I hate her. lol.

Anyways, thank you as always for reading and please review and ENJOY! :)

* * *

**Dark Humor**

**Seven**

_"Justice is balance."_

--Ra's Al Ghul

* * *

"Wh-What are you doing?"

Rachel found herself staring into the barrel of a gun. Officer Ramirez stood before her in the pervading darkness, a grim smile etched upon her barely discernible face. She was clutching the handgun in a death grip, her white-knuckled fingers tensed to pull the trigger at any moment. Rachel fought the panic that threatened to overtake her mind, her own fingers trembling uncontrollably against the knife in her hand.

The look on Ramirez's face had no trace of hope in it. She had all intent to kill.

Carefully, Rachel found herself moving in a half-circle about the room, Ramirez following with agile speed, the gun never leaving its aim at the D.A.'s head. Her body was wracked with panic, so cold and heavy it jarred her mind into a prickling numbness, shooting fear through her veins faster than the adrenaline that already seeped through them. Rachel didn't know where the Joker was now; he could 

run up behind her and run her through with his knife if he wanted. All she could bring herself to stare at was the handgun threatening to destroy her with every passing second, Ramirez's hard eyed glare like a poised predator.

"I'm just siding with the winning team, Rachel."

As the officer spoke, Rachel's gut churned.

The _bitch._ The traitorous, lecherous bitch.

_Once a crooked cop, always a crooked cop. Remember?_

How could she have brought herself to trust her? How could she have been so _stupid?_ To still think that the woman who had played a role in Harvey's death would have been repentant, would have had any ounce of pity left within her?

No, it was easier for her to keep killing. Easier for her to keep working for the mob, to keep working for _him,_ the man who had orchestrated this entire trap, than turn her back and try and reform. Even if it meant taking Rachel's life.

As if in agreement to her thoughts, Ramirez smirked mockingly, jutting her chin upwards,

"No hard feelings?"

Waves of hostility rippled through her at Ramirez's taunt. She clenched the blade of her knife firmly in her hand, her eyes narrowing in defiance,

"Fuck you."

Ramirez's hand moved—at first Rachel thought it was for the trigger, but she merely used her free hand to swipe across her mouth, as if to control the laugh that burst from her lips,

"Really, I don't think it's a good idea to curse at the people who can kill you right now. Now,"

With a quick flourish, she cocked her handgun and aimed at Rachel's forehead with both hands,

"On your knees."

She hesitated for a moment at Ramirez's command, as if weighing her options. The traitor was facing her, not even a foot away, and if she paused and did as she was told there was no chance she wouldn't get a bullet right between her eyes. If she made to run, there was a slighter chance of survival—but barely, as the officer seemed poised and ready for that outcome, and obviously had formidable aim by the way she was handling her weapon.

Instead, Rachel shook her head, continuing to walk in a slow circle, her heart beating faster with every step, knowing each may be her last. Ramirez's eyes widened slightly, obviously not expecting this, and her gun almost seemed to quaver in her grip as she repeated her words,

"On your _knees_. I mean it, Miss D.A."

Rachel was still shaking her head, struggling to fight the raw fear that clung to her like a second skin. Ramirez hadn't shot her yet—maybe this was a good sign. Maybe she could still talk to her.

"You don't have to do this."

Her voice was quiet, cracking against her struggle to keep it steady and formidable. Ramirez was the one to shake her head, now, her gaze unnerved and skeptical, her eyes wide and narrowed,

"You think I have a fucking _choice?_ It's _your life_ for Gotham's, Rachel. For my mother's. What choice do I _have?_"

Rachel swallowed her rampant heart forcefully in her throat,

"It's okay…it'll be fine. You can keep me alive, you can walk out that door right now, and Gordon and the others will resolve it in the morning. They can put you on protection, and me, too, and Gotham will be unharmed. You know there's another way, there always is. Now please…_please_ drop the gun."

Ramirez's hands shook, yet her aim did not falter. Rachel's nails dug into the skin of her palm as her grip on her knife tightened, watching the woman who held her life in her hands. Her legs were tiring; she couldn't keep this up for long, not while her head still throbbed, her situation becoming more and more hopeless. She couldn't do this anymore—it had to _end,_ and suddenly, raw boldness took her as she slowly walked forward, her hands held out, palm upwards, the knife glistening in the moonlight,

"Drop the gun, Ramirez."

The officer scowled and shook her head again; Rachel was coming closer and closer to the weapon, yet with each step the gun merely trembled more forcefully.

"No."

Rachel's nerves were fraying, collapsing in on themselves; the gun was so close any pull of the trigger could shoot the bullet straight through her brain. The fear in her eyes was exposed as she stood still before Ramirez, her knife still splayed on upturned palms, yet her voice was high and stiff with nerves,

"Drop the gun!"

All the steadiness of Ramirez's gaze drained away from her face, instead contorting into wide-eyed panic at Rachel's proximity. Her gun shook so wildly Rachel was stunned it hadn't flown from her hands. Ramirez was backing away, her jaw clenched,

"You can't fucking _make_ me! You can't even hurt a fly!"

In her heightened panic, Ramirez's finger grew heavy on the trigger. Rachel grabbed her blade, yet she knew at once it was the wrong choice to make—

Ramirez screamed for her to stop as Rachel leapt forward, thrusting her entire body at the officer. The cries of protest were all she could hear against the deafening gunshot and their bloodcurdling screams.

Red hot pain bloomed across her shoulder as the sound of the shot tore at her ears. In an instant she was falling, Ramirez beneath her, the gun clattering to the carpet. She heard her own ear-splitting scream, echoed by Ramirez in her ears as a revolting squelching noise shot through the air, a desperate gurgle—then, finally, _finally,_ it was quiet.

Darkness bled across her vision, followed by hot white lights of prickling pain. Her body felt shattered like glass, her nerves tearing with each racking breath. The gun wasn't poised to shoot any longer, despite the pain that bit at every nerve, and for a fleeting moment she felt the primal rush of euphoria it felt to still be _alive._

She wasn't aware until she looked down that her hands were slick with blood.

Beneath her, Ramirez's were eyes wide opened yet ghastly cold and still.

Rachel let out a deep, shuddering gasp, her body buckled and cold except the scalding heat of the blood on her quivering hands. Heaving herself away from the limp body beneath her, she gazed in horror at the kitchen knife—_her knife—_sticking through the officer's throat, the trail of crimson gushing freely in streams to dirty her immaculate white carpet, her white fingers.

Her shoulder ached and stung with each movement of her arms as she pulled herself to her knees. The bullet had bitten through, and her own blood matted her bare skin, the side of her nightgown. It trailed across the pink fabric in deep, dark scarlet, the stream of blood never seeming to end, her own liquid mingled with Ramirez's.

When would it ever _end?_

Rachel forced herself to lean forward despite the shooting pain in her limb, and, fighting back the sob in her throat, gingerly touched the officer's throat. Fresh currents of red spurted in streams across her carpet. She covered her mouth with a blood-coated hand and fought the urge to vomit, her eyes tearing, her breath frantic. Her door was shattered, her apartment streaked with blood and the already-apparent smell of death.

She had _killed_ Ramirez—

Killed the woman before she could kill her.

As the realization sank in, Rachel fell to her knees, covered her ears with her hands, and screamed.

oOo

How many times was it, now, that she's blacked out?

She was sitting, propped up like a doll, against her kitchen chair, watching with glassy eyes the officers huddled about Ramirez's cold body, inspecting her with the hardness of an object. Her eyes still stung with tears, yet she found no more strength in her to cry. They hadn't been tears for the officer, but tears for herself—for what she had done, for taking another human life, if an act of self-defense or not. And they were going to find out, wouldn't they, no matter how silent she had been when asked what had happened? They had found the Joker card, left behind in Ramirez's pocket, yet there was no doubt whose fingerprints marred the knife, no doubt that she was now as good as the criminals she prosecuted.

The Joker's words throbbed through her mind like a mantra, vicious and painful and so terrifyingly _logical._

_Maybe we're more, ah…made for one another than you once thought, Rachel, thinking you were better than all the criminals you've helped Dent put to jail, thinking you got some sort of self-worth and satisfaction from all of it, hmm? But to know now that Batman would have betrayed you, that your closest associates are working for __Maroni__…how does it feel to have no one to trust, not even __yourself__ any longer?_

No—she didn't care anymore, didn't care if they would see her as a killer. Wasn't that what she really _was_, now? She shut her eyes and swayed in her seat, her hands clasped against her knees. She had _killed_ Ramirez, and the worst thing was, the reason her tears still ached to fall against the insides of her lids—

She had actually enjoyed it.

She could remember, beyond the overwhelming guilt, the sickening satisfaction that slithered within her, venomous and penetrating. She remembered the feeling of _relief _at gazing down at that cold, inert body, the feeling that she would _never_ have to see this woman again, would never have to endure Ramirez's hostility, never would have to feel the pain at letting her go free when she had caused Harvey's death…

_Almost as if I was happy to see her bleed. As if it served payback for Harvey's blood, as if it was the only fitting form of justice…_

Justice.

The word burned in her throat, acidic and stinging in all its jaded meaning—a traitor in the false, empty hopes it inspired.

This had been her own form of justice—accidental; yet so horribly _right_ in her mind, so regretless it chilled her to the bone. Prosecuting had always been difficult, if not formerly fulfilling; the criminals were in your face, taunting you with the written implications of the law, finding loop holes through bribes and threats only to escape and cause more damage.

But this…this had ensured Ramirez wouldn't have run anymore crooked deals. No more deaths, no more murders. No more people like Harvey, innocent and desperately hoping in the good of others, dying at 

the hands of corruption. No more people like _her,_ grieving endlessly for the loss of the man she had loved most in her life.

She wanted to scream at herself for how much _sense _it all made. For how at peace she felt; numb, detached, untouched from the world. There was no grieving, no guilt beyond that of human habit.

It was then that her eyes caught the flit of a black cape before her, and her vision darkened as the silhouette overtook her blood-splattered being. Even as dawn filtered through her windows, alighting her wrecked home like fire, he stood still like a total eclipse to douse everything in cold.

An obstruction in her path, like always.

"Batman."

He stood before her, his masked face stern and carefully apathetic as usual as he scanned her frame to survey the damage. She watched as the vigilante took in the sight of her shoulder, now bandaged and matted with blood, at the stained nightgown she hadn't changed since last night. He wasn't standing as straightly as before—he was hunched over, slightly, his wounds still healing.

_The stubborn bastard._

She saw the way his gaze darkened when he eyed that blossoming, bloody wound that had raked her shoulder. He would blame himself for allowing this to happen, she knew—yet, for some strange reason, Rachel found she didn't really _care_. All she cared was that a part of her mind seemed to feel remotely _normal_, again, calm and rational. Bruce was making his own choice in dragging himself from the hospital to play the weakened role of the vigilante who couldn't kill. His choices wouldn't affect her anymore.

Not when she wasn't the Rachel he knew anymore. Not when he could never truly protect her again.

"What happened here? Who hurt you?" He asked in his gruff, scratchy voice, always so carefully concealed.

Rachel watched him carefully, contemplating on telling him the truth outright.

_I killed Ramirez, that's what happened. She tried to attack me, and I stabbed her and took her life, and now what are you going to do, Bruce? Throw me in jail? Arkham, perhaps? Prosecute me like all the rest?_

She turned her head and spoke, automatically, her mind slack and numb with the slowness of her words,

"The Joker came to my apartment last night. And so did Ramirez."

It was all she could say before she turned her gaze towards the circle of officers, still prodding and nudging the body with curious apathy, as if it had not been a living being mere hours ago. As if it was a piece of furniture. It sent a jolt of smugness through her, one that terrified her even more intensely, as she thought of Harvey's body, lying out of her reach, and the body that was so roughly handled before her that had brought her fiancée into such a state in the first place.

It was as if some carnal craving had been satisfied, though not completely—_never_ completely.

Batman was silent for a moment. She could feel his eyes analyzing her, penetrating her, as if struggling to tear from her mind the truth. But her body was limp and mute and overwhelmingly _tired_.

"It's important that we know everything that happened, Rachel. In order to properly catch and put the Joker in his place."

She laughed.

She couldn't help it; the bitter laughter bubbled through her, escaped her lips in an upturned, angered sneer,

"His _place?_ You couldn't even keep him in that cell before. What makes you think you can now?"

Her tone was bitter and hard; she hadn't meant it that way, yet it was how her lips processed the words, how it sounded in her ears. Bruce grew stiff beneath his bulky suit; she could practically feel his nerves taut in the air.

"We'll get him, Rachel—him and everyone else responsible."

His words held a meaning, meaning she wasn't sure whether to attribute to her own dementia or his suspicion. Rachel found herself _laughing_; bitter, angry laughter, frustrated chuckles that surfaced from her eyes in prickling, unshed tears. _Get him?_ Who in God's name had the power to _get_ him, to lock him up and _keep_ him there, when he slithered through every obstacle in his path like a serpent, scheming and malicious and always ready to strike when you least expected it?

What could you do but kill him?

"You're never going to get him," She whispered to his retreating back as he walked across her room toward Ramirez's body, "Not unless you break your rule."

He paused, then, a block of black ice. Recognition plastered itself across his features as he turned to stare at her, and for once, for a fleeting moment, Rachel could see fear flickering in those heavy eyes. Her words had been spoken before, she realized; spoken before and ignored. And look where it had gotten them. Look where it had gotten _her._

He was staring at her as if she were the very same criminal he had been hunting.

_There's no longer any difference, is there? Not even to Batman. Not even to…_

"_Bruce_."

Her voice was a soft whisper as she lowered her head, watching the bottoms of the figures examining the fallen officer's body. How long could they look at a corpse, how long could they nudge and prod and poke and just leave it in her _room?_ Her frustration grew until Gordon emerged from the crowd, his face grim, mouth set in a thin line. He was walking towards her, and her heart beat quickly despite herself.

She expected the same look on his face that Bruce had held—fear, recognition; hostility. Yet he was watching her with sympathy, the guilt that plagued his gentle irises so intense that bile rose against her throat for the second time that night. He regarded her carefully before speaking,

"Rachel…can you tell us why the Joker stabbed Ramirez?"

_What?_

Rachel fought the shocked expression that threatened to surface upon her features. She blinked, her body hot with bewilderment. Her mouth opened once, twice, found the words caught in her throat, never expecting _this_ to happen. The best possible outcome of the situation, in her mind, had been that they acknowledged her murder of Ramirez as self-defense. But to not even know she _killed_ her, when it was _her_ knife, her—

"Look, we need to know, Rachel," Gordon continued in a gentle voice, his hand on her shoulder, "I understand if you're still in shock from what happened the other night. But the Joker's cards were all over her body, and that knife had no fingerprints at all. Now you may not remember, or you may have fainted, but if you do, _please_ tell me."

His cards. Her fingerprints, wiped completely clean.

Her body went cold as the realization rushed through her, the only obvious logical thought within the illogical insanity that had become her life.

He hadn't wanted her to take the fault for this.

He wanted her to kill Ramirez, to harbor the guilt alone.

And he had been in her apartment while she had been _unconscious_—who knew for how long?—replacing the knife in Ramirez's body, making sure everything led back to _him._ Even the officer's corpse had been marked by his careful hands, and as she glanced over Gordon's shoulder, she could see the trail of Joker cards that lined the girl's body beneath her uniform, blood-red "HA'S" covering each individual card so that her figure was a chorus of bloodthirsty, carnal laughter. They had been stapled there, as if her skin had been nothing but olive-toned paper.

A shudder rippled through her, and she fought the creeping vertigo at the latest revelation. Rachel licked her lips and knew now, no matter what she said; they wouldn't _possibly _believe she had taken any part in the offensive last night. A part of her, a very small, self-righteous part, left behind from her days before Harvey's death, begged and pleaded in her mind to 

_confess_, if for anything, for justice. But the remainder of her body reacted the way the most primal of creatures would—vie for her own survival, her own safekeeping.

"The Joker…"

The name scalded her tongue as she spoke; she found she had to bite back a hiss in reflex,

"He came, with Ramirez. He…he threatened her to hurt me, but…"

Her eyes flicked towards the corpse upon the ground, then back towards Bruce, who was eyeing her carefully from his position near Ramirez's form, as if taking in every word she said with careful scrutiny,

"…But Ramirez wouldn't listen to him. And so…he took one of my knives, a-and…"

She shut her eyes, a cold finger trailing across her spine as she relived the memories she desperately needed to push away. The feeling of skin breaking beneath her grip, the heavy knife sliding through flesh and muscle and blood as easily as tearing through thin paper, the scalding sanguine heat slick on her hands, still pumping from a frantic, screaming heart…

_And it was over, and I enjoyed it and hated myself even more for enjoying it._

Was it true? Could she _possibly _have felt no true regret at taking this woman's life? As she bit her lip and felt Gordon's hand retract from her shoulder, she couldn't deny the rippling _strength _that penetrated her despite her physical weakness. The feeling of being powerful, of being able to strike back at those who had hurt her so deeply…could it really be so intoxicating, so wantonly satisfying?

"All right, we get the gist of it," Gordon spoke quietly to her, his gaze filled with endless pity as her eyes opened to meet his own, "We'll have to check the rest of your home as well for any evidence, any traces he might have left behind. Do you have anywhere else to stay, Rachel? Anywhere secure?"

Rachel opened her mouth to speak, contemplating on some low-key hotel, yet before the words could come out Batman was before them again, his rasping words more of a command than a suggestion,

"I know a place where she can stay. She'll be safe from the Joker and any of his lackeys."

_Shit._

Rachel's eyes widened at Batman's suggestion; she knew, beneath the mask, that Bruce's gaze was fierce and determined. His fist was clenched at his side, as if unwilling to accept any inevitable protests from her—he would lock her away in his manor if he had to, hold her prisoner if it would enforce her safety.

Her skin crawled at the thought of being held captive with a murderer on the loose.

"Well, then," Gordon replied with a shrug of his shoulders, "Seems like it's settled. Unless Miss Dawes has any complaints against it?"

Rachel stared at Bruce for a long time before she could bring herself to speak. His gaze was unnerving, made even more so by the mask that hid the humanity from his face. She strained to see through that black cover, to somehow penetrate his shielded stare with her own stubborn defiance, yet she saw no way around the equal, if not more intense, adamancy of his frame.

She really would have no choice, unless her choice involved allowing Alfred to tie and restrain her to a pillar of Wayne manor or simply lock her behind the doors.

"No."

Rachel finally gave a heavy sigh of compliance as Batman's strong frame gripped at her arms, guiding her through the apartment complex. He ducked them into an alley nearby and almost immediately unmasked himself, causing her to frown in confusion,

"Bruce, besides the fact that I am _stark-raving mad_ at you right this moment, why on earth would you just unmask yourself in the middle of the morn—"

"Batman doesn't usually prowl under cover very well when the sun is shining down on him and Gotham is filled with people, does he?"

Bruce interrupted her quickly, walking them through the short alley path and towards the street of a still-quiet neighborhood, where a sleek, black limousine sat in wait.

"Oh," Rachel retorted quickly, rolling her eyes despite the sudden burst of nausea that came with exerting herself from her physically taxing night, "And dragging a girl in a bloody nightgown while still in your bat suit and going to your manor in a stretch limo is _much_ less conspicuous."

Bruce grinned almost earnestly at her words, his hard eyes glinting,

"Glad you agree."

As they shuffled into the car, Alfred greeting her in his usual jovial nature despite the undoubtedly gruesome sight of her battered and bloodied visage, Rachel drummed her fingers against the car window, her gaze searching blindly across the awakening streets of Gotham. Her mind ached from lack of sleep and doubtless physical and mental trauma, yet the sickly satisfaction still twisted its way between her ribs like a knife with feathered edges; penetrating, yet pleasurable in the most disgusting way possible. She wondered if Bruce could read her as easily as she felt; if he knew there was more to the night than she had admitted.

Well, she would know soon enough, wouldn't she? Being a prisoner undoubtedly led to some type of interrogation.

With a scowl at her drained reflection in the glossy limousine window, she caught sight of Bruce against its surface, his eyes closed; resting with his hand upon his torso where the deep gash began. Although she would have felt pity the other morning, it seemed as if it were all worn away from her, replaced with a bitterness that was difficult to shed.

Her nails nearly scratched the window's surface as determination settled in the pit of her stomach, deeper than any other thought that plagued her mind at that very moment. The Joker card she had found in her nightgown when awakening, minutes before the police arrived, still lay hidden against her breast. Upon its glossy surface were the sloppily scratched words forming a street address in downtown Gotham, one she knew to be some type of warehouse near the docks. The time: 5 o' clock sharp.

It was an invitation for her.

And, whether Bruce liked it or not, she was going to take it.

Even she had to defy the Batman to exact her own justice.


	8. Eight: Freak

Dark Humor

AN:Crap, I'm so sorry this chapter took me so long to write out. It's mainly because it was particularly difficult to write, since I have to admit that this is mainly a (don't kill me) filler chapter, in place for the next two (or three, or more) action-packed chapters to be set in motion. There IS some Joker in it, have no fear, though limited…because I wanted to focus more on the relationship between Bruce/Batman and Rachel and how it's been affected by the latest events. But I promise, much much much much MUCH more exciting chapters after this one. :) Chapter Nine will come out lightning-fast, too, probably within the next day or so, because I actually wrote out most of it before finishing this chapter because I was so excited to do it…(which shows you how much I absolutely abhor filler chapters.) I ALSO wrote out the epilogue for this 'fic a few nights ago, too (which there's still A LOT of time and chapters before that's going to be posted, so stay calm guys lol) which shows how much I don't really like sticking to writing things in order…I'm pretty happy with it though and I'm definitely steering the story in that direction from now on.

But yeah, anyway, I hope this isn't boring or a slump in quality for you all…I just felt it was necessary to the backbone of the plot. The next chapter will be coming VERY soon and will compensate very much. :)

But first…I just want to give a really really heartfelt thank you to EVERYONE that has reviewed/faved/alerted this 'fic. You guys are AMAZING and you all rock so hard. I don't think I would have gotten past chapter 1 without you guys…honestly, you guys are so good to me and you keep me writing. :) I LOVE YOU ALL. I'm also just going to do review replies now rather than include them in the Author's Notes because it takes up a ton of space (that I'm already taking up by babbling on right now…)

Anyways!

Read, review, and ENJOY! :)

Love,

Xxnadsxx.

* * *

**Dark Humor**

**Eight**

"_Justice is Balance."_

_--Ra's Al Ghul_

Wayne Manor had always been the safest place in Gotham. It loomed before them, a striking constant in her mind despite everything else that seemed to die away in body and spirit around her. Gotham was dying, its very foundations rotting to the core—yet here was a building that seemed timeless, immaculate, untouched. There was no evidence of age upon the residence's huge frame, the columns and elegantly curved windows a Gothic testament to timelessness rather than erosion. Even now, Rachel had to wonder at Bruce's ability to completely restore his Manor, brick-by-brick, to the exact prototype of how it appeared before the arson by Ra's Al Ghul not long ago. It was as if he had torn open the fabric of Time and brought memories to life; as if nothing could ever truly be damaged—

_Or maybe only if Batman is involved._

She shifted in her seat as the car jolted to a halt. Alfred held the car door opened for her, gesturing politely.

"If you'd please, Miss Dawes."

He had his hand out to her, using formality even when they had known each other for so long, his softly wrinkling white face and the deeply carved lines along his eyes as his lips curled into a smile the only indication of any difference from the Alfred she had known as a child. It was comforting, if not just as strange as the consistency of Wayne Manor—

_How some things are still so constant amidst all the chaos. How some things never change unless they're forced to change._

Despite herself, she reciprocated his smile, albeit with a weak half-grin against her fatigued face, and grasped his hand with enough strength to pull herself out of the limousine. Bruce was behind her with quick steps; she couldn't help but flinch slightly at the feeling of his fingers against her back, his still-gloved hands a wicked mirroring of more sadistic fingers from other nights. They were moving quickly into the Manor, a bit too quickly for her disoriented head, yet she knew _why;_ Bruce was still wearing very prominent articles of his Bat suit, and they couldn't risk having any passersby happening to glimpse sight of the vigilante through their gates.

She was shuffling through the front doors, across the wide, gaping interior of the entrance hall, the Manor suddenly spinning wildly about her small frame. Everything seemed too _big,_ too dizzying, as if somehow the ceiling had risen to hundreds of feet above her head since her last time here. It was strange, as if she were looking at the inside of Bruce's home through new eyes, a home she had once been so accustomed to as a child. Things seemed…darker, the locked doorways and thick shadows clustering unlit halls foreboding and ominous, though she had traversed them all before, been painfully familiarized with every corner and crack of the huge home. Maybe it was because her life had become so unpredictable lately, an object of paranoia and rampant fear. Or maybe since Harvey, the string connecting Gotham to any last semblance of order and sanity, had been torn away—maybe it had changed her so much she hardly recognized what had been stable before.

_I'm the changed one. The outcast. _

Yes—it made sense now, as Bruce walked beside her, casting a pained glance in her direction. Rachel didn't belong here anymore. She had grown up in this place as a child, sheltered and cradled cautiously in the lap of indulgence and, above all else, innocence.

_Ignorance._

Even while growing up, the manor had remained a home of constants, never-changing, never-shifting despite how everything else changed around her. Despite how much blood had been spilled, how many crimes had slipped through her fingers as assistant D.A., she could return to this place, return to _Bruce—_to Batman—and indulge in its promises of stability and that very same innocence that was so rare in a place like Gotham, let alone the world itself.

_But now that's gone._ _Now I'm no longer the naïve one. _

She felt Bruce's hand brush her own as they walked towards the end of a long, narrow hall, and her thoughts inevitably swept towards him. The face of her childhood friend filled her mind, worn with worry-lines and a seemingly permanent frown against his strong features. Constant, despite the suit which was bound to his limbs even now like a second skin, the lack of mask doing nothing to hide what she knew still lay within him, from when they were children in the manor.

_Innocence._

Despite it all, Bruce Wayne was still innocent—as untouched and unmarred as a newborn. The thought struck her as funny, for some strange reason—she found herself biting back a sadistic giggle, as they neared the door she could only deduce as one of the many guest rooms within the maze of a manor. Batman, who pummeled away at countless criminals and watched as people were slaughtered and killed, including his own _parents,_ still held that constant of innocence that she had so recently lost in the flames of Harvey's death. She wondered at it, wondered how flawed it seemed to make him, how strangely vulnerable even when dressed with the capability of killing at that very moment.

"Would you like anything, Rachel? Something to drink, perhaps?"

It took her a moment to realize they had halted in front of the door. Rachel found herself twisting the side of her nightgown in a fist as she turned her head up to meet Alfred's gaze, the kindly smile creased with an almost paternal worry,

"No, Alfred, thank you. I'm fine."

Her words came blankly from her lips, monotonous and almost robotic. It was drained, yet she knew there was no need to cover it with saccharine courtesy or sweetness. Alfred and Bruce were like family, if a bit dysfunctional, and they could read her better than the words that surfaced from her lips. Yet Alfred merely nodded, kind enough to leave her in her state of discomposure. Bruce pushed the door open silently, beckoning her to follow. His eyes hadn't met hers at all.

"Here," He began as she leaned against the doorframe within what she presumed to be a relatively small guest room, "I know it's not much, but feel free to fix things up to how you like them. This is your home for now, Rachel, so I'll let you get comfortable in a bit when I'm through."

As he spoke, Bruce settled down upon what would now apparently be Rachel's bed, the mattress creaking slightly beneath the weight of his suit. The room was small enough to make her claustrophobic in her slowly fading state of shock; shaped like a white-walled cube, with the barest necessities of a small white bed, a closet, a desk and lamp. Bruce patted the side of the bed, watching her expectantly, his gaze suddenly very serious and almost uncomfortably penetrating. If Rachel didn't know him any better, she would almost be intimidated by the fierceness of his gaze. She wondered numbly if it wasn't too late to turn and walk stubbornly out of the Manor in a fit of defiance against his wishes, yet she eyed his suit and his stern expression warily before sighing and sitting on the other end after only a minute's hesitation.

Bruce was staring at her, now, though words did not come to him immediately. It was as if she could feel his mind working wildly within his skull, picking out the perfect words to keep her here, to make her listen. Like reasoning with a child, or someone equally rebellious—

_Like a criminal._

Again, the dark laughter bubbled up within her, spontaneously and almost uncontrollably. She bit her lip and lowered her head, staring down at the bedside as the urge to giggle subsided. Why was it that she always had that insane urge, now, whenever things seemed to spiral out of her control?

"Listen, Rachel." He pressed after a long, crackling pause.

She shifted against the white bed, her fingers smoothing the ripples their still forms made against the fabric. She couldn't help but wonder if this was how the Batman spoke to flourishing criminals; calmly, carefully, like soothing a kitten that had recently developed bloodthirsty incisors.

"I know this has been hard for you."

_No shit,_ the voice in her mind drawled sarcastically, and she was biting her lip again, fighting the urge to vocalize her thoughts. Bruce continued, possibly encouraged by her silence,

"It's…been hard for everyone in Gotham, losing our White Knight, having to rely on blind faith to get us through. And for you…I know you've been through so much…Harvey, the funeral…_everything._ Even…"

His hand rose to touch his torso. Rachel knew the urge to be subconscious, tracing the deep wound that was still healing beneath layers of armor,

"…even _I'm _a little worse for wear from everything the Joker's done. But you _can't_ let it get to you, Rachel. You just…"

The vigilante's dark eyes snapped shut, as if mentally debating on each word, as if any lack of precision would make them fail to reach her,

"…You just need to endure. We're both suffering, and I'm not going to tell you that I can comprehend what you're going through right now. But _please._ _Please._"

He went to take her hand; she hesitated, for a moment, her gaze having been adamantly glued to her own fingers as they worked blankly against the bedspread. With a quiet sigh, she complied to his desperate touch, if only because she was too tired to physically fight him.

"I just want to keep you _safe_, Rachel," He said quietly, his eyes creased in heavy, dark lines across his face, "And it's not for my own personal gain. It's _not_ guilt, it's because _I_…"

He froze, the words lingering on his lips. Rachel turned her head at the feeling of his fingers squeezing her knuckles, as if his body were desperate to express what words could never possibly admit. He _cared_ about her; she knew that—she knew that if she died, a part of him would die away with her.

_But just how much?_

Pain shot through her chest at the thought, lingered at the broken nerves of her bandaged shoulder, the back of her undoubtedly bruised head. She was so battered, physically and mentally, so weary…she wanted the entire crumbling world around her to shut up and close in on itself like a crushing fist, leaving nothing but a ball of empty gravity and air. She wanted everything to stop, right at that moment, to cease and die away if it only meant that things would start to make sense again, that some form of clarity would seep back into the disjointed world through the nothingness.

Maybe then there would be some order in their lives again. Some semblance of logic. Some _sanity._

_We're all crazy, aren't we? Bruce, the Joker, Gordon…_

Her fist squeezed against Bruce's, as if trying to assert her own existence. Her own solid form, intact and still and whole, far from being destroyed completely—as much as she may have willed it. She felt her heartbeat in that single point of pressure, felt Bruce's join with her own, resonant against the quiet of his Manor. They were mourning something, mourning the loss of their once-blissful past on these very same grounds, now nothing but another fairytale to add to the pile. Nothing but gravity and air.

_Myself._

"Bruce," She sighed, staring down at their entwined fingers, like a single embodiment of flesh, conjoined at the heart, "I know. I…I _know._ And you know, if things had been _different…_"

She shut her eyes, muting the lie before it could escape her.

"…But I _can't._" The sob twisted in her throat, and she was biting her lip against the immense guilt that flooded through and destroyed her world just a little more, "I _can't,_ and you know that. I was…happy with Harvey. I was…complete. And now…now it's not the _same._ Now it can't be _replaced._"

Her words ended as strained whispers against the struggling tears. She wasn't even sure as to why she was crying; she just was, not in free, wet tears across her cheeks, but in the straining of her throat, the prickling of her eyes. She raised her head, her fingers practically digging into his thick, warm hand, keeping the tears from betraying her and coursing down her cheeks,

"Can't you see, Bruce? This can't stop. This can't stop until he's _dead._ Until one of us—…"

Her words trailed; Bruce knew what she would say, knew by the way his grip tightened so hard on her own hand they nearly broke her bones. She couldn't look at him; she _couldn't._ She couldn't look at the man she had genuinely _loved_ before having fallen for Harvey, the man she was torturing by her own undoing, the man she would, even now, risk life and limb for.

_But why do I still feel the hate? The choking, suffocating, terrible hate? Why do I still feel so bitter? So…empty?_

Perhaps it was the thought that he wouldn't do the same for her—not _completely._ That Batman wouldn't die for Rachel Dawes. Bruce Wayne would—but not _Batman._

This was why she couldn't let him come to that point. She would die, or the Joker would die, before she'd let him lay his life on the line.

_If you died for him, would he feel remorse for the loss of your life…or for never even thinking of doing the same?_

The sickening thoughts spiraled in her mind like freefall, seizing her heart mercilessly with it.

"Rachel, you're _not_ risking your life for anyone, do you hear me?"

He was holding onto her chin, gently turning her head in his direction. She fought against it with straining muscles, but he was stronger. _Like always._ She found herself staring at Bruce's lips, pressed together in a tight, thin line, his eyes examining her with the desperation of a mother seeking out the affections of her rebellious, defiant child.

_Like he's losing me, somehow. _

_Like I've changed too much for him to recognize._

_Like I'm some sort of _freak.

"Rachel. _Rachel._"

His tone sounded impatient, mottled with strained anxiety. She had never heard him so unnerved before, his voice loud and—was he _shaking_ her? His arms were at her shoulders and he was pressing into her lightly, yet it was strong enough to force her to stare at him. She wasn't sure what he saw in her gaze at that moment—emptiness, defiance, anger, blank assent?

Whatever it was, he met it with a look of shock in his wide eyes. He brought a finger to stroke her hair, brush across her forehead. She didn't realize there were beads of sweat clinging to her skin until he wiped them away, tenderly, like grooming some sort of doll. The thought sickened her, and she willed some sort of consciousness to fill her stare, nodding silently.

"You don't have to worry about me, Bruce."

She said it in a choked whisper as his grip stiffened against her arms, his face a blank slate for what seemed an uncomfortable eternity. Sweat trickled across her spine, the sickening urge to laugh swelling in her chest _again._ It seemed that whenever he gazed upon her with anything but that once all-too familiar affection, that familial compassion she would have readily reciprocated such a short time ago…it made her feel like less of a person. Like more of some sort of irregularity in the eyes of Bruce Wayne, eyes that were now wide and frantically searching through her blank, defiant stare for something he could readily recognize.

_Something of the weak, compliant Rachel. The one that nods and agrees after any argument of her disapproval that he is the Batman, that he is exacting justice in his own way, that he is risking himself. Because in the end, I always agree, no matter how repulsive the thought is to me._

"What do you mean?"

Bruce finally posed the question she had been waiting for, his fingers taut against her skin, skin that suddenly seemed so frail and cold and disposable against his hot iron grip. For a sickening, deranged moment she actually thought he was going to _hit_ her, his stare was so fierce and vicious, and she couldn't distinguish whether that hostility was meant for _her_ or for the frustration he undoubtedly felt that he had to resort to talking his childhood friend out of her suicidal plans.

"I mean…" She began quietly, her throat dry as she struggled not to falter at Bruce's hard stare, "I mean you don't have to concern yourself with me and what I do with my life, Bruce. Not anymore. Because that way, you won't have to get hurt, and I won't stand in your way to keep you from the Joker."

Another pause, so long and seemingly endless Rachel could have sworn she saw fire dancing in Bruce's ember-black eyes. He was undoubtedly trying to control the raging temper that had flared within him, that coupled the frustration and the urge to shout at her. How had things ended up like this, with Bruce resorting to clinging to her as if any slack in his grip would make her gush from his hands like water, her life trickling from his grasp into the sewage and scum of Gotham?

She didn't know when, but it was true; she was beginning to feel oddly weightless, her words carrying a substance of confession to her thoughts that was almost wickedly freeing.

"God _damn it,_ Rachel," Bruce finally hissed, lowering his head slightly and taking a deep, shaking breath, "You have no idea what you're _saying._ Of course I have to concern myself with you! Of course I have to keep you from the Joker, from danger. You're hysterical right now, you've been since Harvey died—Gordon has been ranting about keeping you locked up, if only to keep that sick bastard from toying with you again. And you're _not_—"

He grit his teeth, rows of white-knuckled fists to match the painful pressure of his fingers digging into her skin,

"—going to lose your _life_ trying to avenge something that's _gone,_ Rachel. It's _gone,_ it's _over_, and there's nothing you can do about it! There's no other option but to sit and endure."

_No._

That wasn't true. He was lying through the air between his teeth, lying in the almost-deadly threatening glint in his eye, lying in every little way in which his body twitched, doing so out of the sick desperation to keep her alive. There was another option. There was _always_ another option. It was just an option Bruce was too much of a coward to try and reach.

"That's not true," She murmured quietly, her words almost mute against the harsh, pounding screams of Bruce's growing agitation beneath his skin.

He flinched sharply, and he pulled her forwards. For a moment, Rachel thought he was actually going to _push_ her, to hit her, he was so forceful in the way he grabbed her. A gasp flew from her lips as he crushed her against his armor, gripping her tightly in a fierce hold. It would almost be a hug, if he wasn't struggling not to unleash his agitation on her, wasn't trying to hold her in one place and keep her from escaping from him.

"No," She whispered, continuing to speak even when her words were muffled against the armor of his torso, even when he was still holding adamantly onto her like some precious object he didn't want to risk being pried away from, "It has to be this way, Bruce. It _has_ to. I can't live with myself if I don't _do_ anything, don't you understand?! I have to do what you _can't_ do, and that's the _only way_ Gotham can be saved anymore. That's the only way balance can be restored after Harvey's death. And we _both know it!_"

She was shouting against his crushing hold, twisting her head upwards to glare straight into Bruce's face. To her surprise, she could see a million emotions dispersed within his black irises, tiny pinpricks of stars that were hot and searing and pleading, yet too far, too detached to ever reach her. It was the _pain_ in those eyes that was the most prominent, the pain and the fear, mingled inseparably with the threat of tearing through his body and igniting him completely in flames.

Rachel caught her breath, suddenly aware of how much she was trembling. How much they were _both_ shaking. If it wasn't for the armor, Bruce would have lacked the strength to keep her there, if only for the sheer terror and dread that possessed him at that moment. He was _losing_ her, and he knew it—knew how fruitless his efforts were.

She was _killing_ him with her defiance, because she had once been one of the only constants of his past. The Manor, Alfred, the inheritance…and herself. And yet here she was, in his grip like an enemy he was trying to dissuade, fading away into herself, changing through force into someone he could no longer recognize by memory alone. And if her body was lost in the process, if she actually _died_…

There would be no one to keep Bruce Wayne from changing. To keep Batman from falling from grace, whatever such a horrific thought entailed.

_But the decision is already made. We both know it, which is why he's still trying…trying and failing. And he knows he can't reach me anymore. He knows it's all pointless. So he's _holding_ me, because it could be his last time doing it. _

_His last time embracing his childhood, before it, too, collapses in the flame._

"You're not going to do that, Rachel." His voice was a command, yet emptier, drained of all ferocity, "You're going to stay here, and you're going to stop trying to chase the Joker and you're going to stay _alive._"

_No. You're too late, Bruce. You can't save me if I've already damned myself._

But she couldn't torture him like this. She couldn't drag him down along with her, couldn't corrupt him this way. And so, it was for _him,_ rather than for herself, that she smiled crookedly against his steel grip and nodded shakily, the smile never reaching her blank eyes,

"Okay."

Bruce's wide-eyed anxiety seemed to dwindle down into a contentedness; as content as he could manage to look with his broken spirit and weary face. He unclamped his hands from her shoulders, his body weak and wrought with mental exhaustion as she pulled away from him, slinking back towards the very edge of the bed, her head lowered towards the carpet. His gaze was still plastered upon her slight, curled frame, as if It would stay there forever—as if willing himself to always fix his stare upon her, he could somehow save them all, could somehow will themselves to travel backwards into the past and embrace the stability they had all long ago been deprived of. She wished she could say something to comfort him, to tell him that all wasn't lost—that, somehow, somewhere, she was still _his._

But there was nothing for him to have anymore.

Not when it was slowly crumbling in on itself. Not when she was allowing it to.

He hadn't expected her to agree with him, anyway; but she had. Part of it was that it wasn't a _lie;_ not really. She didn't expect herself to live, so what was she risking? She wasn't just going after the Joker for Bruce's sake, wasn't about to go and meet him and possibly get herself slaughtered yet again just to keep him away from the manor.

No, she was still doing it for Harvey. And for herself.

Because a part of her was _drawn_ to it. A part of her wanted to make the bastard _bleed._

As much as she hated to admit it, she was chasing him. She was willingly playing into his game, and she would have nothing more than to play it all the way through. So that she would guarantee that he would leave Bruce out of this, of course—and so she could guarantee some semblance of retribution for Harvey's death. It had become the core of her life in these few horrific days, it had consumed her, and she couldn't sift through Time to reclaim herself again.

She thought, somehow, that things would make more sense when justice was achieved. When Harvey's killers were gone, and some sort of temporary peace lay in the wake of destruction. Maybe then, Gotham would be a little more _sane._

"Okay, then."

Silence between them, lasting eons as she sat there, her gaze drawn by the dark shadow of his heavily suited form against the wooden floor. She didn't want to look at him. She was a coward, unwilling to read the emotions on Bruce's face any longer, a part of her slighted by his aggression, his mistrust. She heard him take a deep breath, felt him consider reaching forward again, his warmth penetrating the air like nothing else could—

And then he dropped his hand into his lap, and raised his head, and walked away.

Rachel heard the door shut closed like a booming finality in her mind. She inclined her head to find he had left her a glass of green liquid, a vial he drank for strength, chilled and inviting. She would need it.

As her mind slipped away, she needed the strength of her body to compensate for it.

oOo

As daylight began to ebb into evening, Rachel wondered just how low she had gone.

She would have liked to say her values still remained intact; that justice still existed, somewhere far away and fanciful. Maybe if Ramirez hadn't died at her hands, she would have still believed it. But from Harvey's death, her high values had begun to crumble, and she knew at that point it was when they had finally stood no chance of surviving on pure faith alone.

Of course, the police had always been useless, the bastards of the mob from sheer fear. Holding her green concoction firmly in her hands, she touched the glass to the tip of her tongue as she drank, reveling in the sharp cold that clamped about the tip like a knife cutting at her nerves.

Rachel wondered if Gordon was the only officer that could be trusted through and through.

She wondered if _anyone_ could be trusted through and through.

Her fingers curled about the glass, stroking its biting cold edge as her thoughts lingered toward Bruce. He didn't trust her; the fact had been painfully drilled into her mind from their last exchange, when he had chosen to keep her captive in the Manor in the first place.

_But a part of it is for your protection. Your welfare. He's desperate to keep you alive._

She smirked bitterly at her own thoughts, slamming the glass hard against the table. Sharp cracks burst like veins against the underside of the cup, a broken shard cutting the tip of her finger. Rachel cursed and brought her finger to her mouth, mulling over how easily distracted by her own pain she could be. It made her do stupid things, things that only brought her even more pain in the end.

_Like getting Bruce involved in this beyond Batman. Like encouraging him to put his life on the line again just to keep me here, against my will._

Would the Joker pay her a visit in Bruce Manor—would he be so ruthless, so relentless to try and kill Bruce _again?_

_But he could never get past the security of the Manor. And if he really made his way in here…_

He would find out who Batman was. There would be no way she could keep Bruce alive if the truth slipped.

And it would be all because of _her._

_Well, then…if that's how it's going to be, then there's obviously no other choice, is there? _

No. Of course there wasn't. There were other options, other possibilities, yet she saw none in which the lives of others weren't compromised. None in which Bruce would stand a chance at not being tampered with again, like the bait she had always been.

And so, as she sat there, her gaze flickered towards the door of her room as she pushed the drained cup across the top of the desk, pulling herself to her feet. There were no windows in her room, nothing to truly signal what time of day it was, except for her own internal sense of time and frantic count of minutes beneath her breath with every passing second. Bruce had meant to keep her confined here, after all, leaving her in such a small, suffocating space within closed doors.

But she knew getting out would be easy. Taking a deep breath and cursing herself for her intentions, for having to hurt Bruce _again,_ Rachel stood near the doorway and twisted the knob just slightly, opening it enough so that she could see across the long expanse of hall before her. There was no one in sight. She pulled herself across the hall, her fingers against the side of the wall, taking slow, padding steps towards the kitchen. The chill of the Manor crept upon her skin as she was still in her nightgown from the other night, yet when she finally turned the corner and reached the kitchen, she didn't really care.

Alfred was there, just as she had presumed. And Bruce was nowhere to be seen; out on an early vigilante run, perhaps, or locked up in his study. She watched Alfred as he dried cups and silverware along the countertop, busily humming a tune she couldn't quite make out beneath his breath. Clearing her throat, she quietly knocked along the side of the wall, and when he lifted his head slightly to acknowledge her she knew he had noticed her enter by his lack of surprise,

"Yes, Rachel? Anything I can help you with?"

"Yes, actually, Alfred," She began, willing a tight smile to graze her features, "It's kind of embarrassing, but…um, it's been a while since…well, since I changed out of my nightgown, and—"

Comprehension dawned upon the butler in an instant, his wizened features twisting into an almost sympathetic smile,

"Ah, yes. Of course! Master Wayne has laid out some of your clothing for you in the bathroom, if you're feeling in need of a shower."

Relief coursed through her veins at the realization that this would be easier than she had planned. That, and Bruce hadn't been completely the inconsiderate host; he had left her some of her personal wardrobe from her apartment, at least. She smiled genuinely at him, before resolving to rush to the bathroom as quickly as she could,

"Thank you, Alfred."

As she walked off, her heart beat more and more rapidly with each quick-paced step. Rachel rushed into the bathroom with a quick glance at the grandfather clock perched against the corner of the hall, its ticking face reading 4:15. She didn't have much time, not much at _all,_ especially considering Wayne Manor was a considerable amount of time away from the docks. She worked quickly, then, peeling away her dirtied and blood-soaked nightgown with quick hands and cleaning herself as best as she could of the blood that would never, no matter how hard she scrubbed, disappear from within her. Rachel bit back a whimper of pain as the water lightly coursed across her bandaged shoulder, before hopping from the shower and changing rapidly into black pants, a turtleneck and her overcoat.

_But there's no more gun in your coat, is there? You'll be going without anything to protect yourself._

Cursing at the thought, Rachel found herself scrabbling across the hall toward other countless rooms that lined the halls. Would she have to be a thief now, resorting to _stealing_ from her childhood friend's home to protect herself?

The clock at the end was ticking, chiming to a harmonious melody as its hands settled on 4:30.

_Shit._

She only had a half hour left.

Rachel found herself searching quickly from unlocked door to unlocked door, through drawers and cabinets of personal belongings and occasionally empty contents. Finally, _finally,_ after what she knew would have taken at least ten minutes, she found a gun, hidden within a drawer of neatly piled clothing. She checked that it was loaded before unlocking the window in the room, and, with a second glance behind her and one outside at the darkening sky, she leapt through to be greeted by fresh air.

She knew she only had fifteen minutes, at the most.

She was going to be late.

As Rachel processed this, she began to run towards the street to the nearest taxi, as fast as her shaking legs could carry her.

oOo

Her phone was vibrating in her pocket.

It was 5:10, traffic was finally coming to standstill, the Docks were nearing around the corner, and Rachel's phone registered a voicemail.

_Harvey Dent._

God, what could he want now, when she was so close to confronting him? Her fingers trembled on the keypad, and Rachel uttered a trail of curses as she raised the phone to her ear.

"You all right back there?" Her driver asked nervously, his round face peering at her from the rear view mirror.

Rachel nodded, holding a hand up to quiet him as they inched closer towards the rows of warehouses flanking the Docks. The mechanical voice on the other end of the phone had finally finished speaking, and in its place was a high-pitched, malicious whisper,

"Raaaaa-_chel,_ my _puh-_retty little Raaaa-_chel_!" The sing-song voice crooned on the other end, almost affectionate if it weren't for the snarl that followed, "Come out, _come out, wherever you areee!"_

A pause, then a booming, whooping laughter. Waves of fresh loathing rippled throughout her being as she held the phone as close to her ear as she could, trying to block out the noise from being heard by her driver. Then, just as abruptly as it had begun, the laughter stopped, interrupted by a low, scathing hiss,

"_Why_ did you have to stand me _up-puh?_ I came to _col_lect you as a surprise for our scheduled little…_date,_ and you were _no_-where to be found! _Love_ what you've _done_ with the puh-_lace_ though," He giggled, his voice lowering almost conspiratorially, "All the blood on the walls, the _car_-pets…it suits you _much_ better, I think-_kuh._ Though I'd have to say, we could have _kept_ the body, used it as a _loooove-_seat!"

He could barely suppress his giggles on the other line; his voice exploded into a fit of hysterics again, the booming laugh seeming to last forever as it penetrated her throbbing ears with pain,

"…But, you _know,_ I really _do_ hope you can make it. That no _flying bats_ have you cooped up in their little _hi-_dey _holes._ You _wouldn't_ want to miss out on to-_night-tuh,_ especially since if you get _cold feet…_"

Silence. At first she thought the message had ended, that the Joker had merely hung up in all his growing excitement, had wanted to leave the sentence hanging. But another series of giggles followed, her ears prickling with the vicious satisfaction in each chuckle, as if he were immensely pleased with himself. As if he was quenching his thirst for blood.

Then she heard it, something she had thought to be simple static in the background; a scream. Someone was _screaming_ on the other line, someone the Joker had been evidently been entertaining. Her grip tightened on the phone, her teeth chewing so hard into her lip she could taste her own coppery blood. They were in the Dock area, now, the car beginning to slow to a halt, but the laughing never seemed to stop, the remainder of the message only made up of minutes of sadistic chuckling and howling amidst the horrified, blood-curdling screams in the background, the pleas, the cries of pain…

Rachel pushed her phone in her overcoat without bothering to shut it, bolting from the taxi through the cluster of identical warehouses. As she ran, her phone boomed with the never-ending laughter in her pocket, the victim's screams piercing the bloody red of the evening sky.


	9. Nine: Puppet

**AN**: I told you this chapter would be up quickly! :) Thanks to everyone who has reviewed the last one, and I'll try to keep up with the turbo-speed updates. By the way, I borrowed a few minor lines later on in the chapter from the movie...just because the scene makes much more sense that way. But, anyway...enjoy!

Love, xxnadsxx.

* * *

**Dark Humor**

**Nine**

"_Justice is balance."_

_--Ra's AlGhul_

* * *

As Rachel reached the towering warehouses, finally, _finally,_ the screams went silent, and she was left with only the screams inside of her mind. The buildings that lined the Docks were eerily quiet, save for the squeals of seagulls and the gently lapping waters in the distance. Frustration threatened to explode in a shriek from her gut as she realized there was no _way_ she could tell any of the warehouses apart; every single one was black and identical, save for painted white numbers marking them apart from the other, ending somewhere in the 50's at the very edge of her vision.

_God, no. Don't let it end like this._

She bit back a frustrated sob, banging her fist hard against the side of the first warehouse's wall, her knuckles biting into its surface with a painful sting. She was going to be too _late,_ the Joker would take her absence as a form of defiance, and he would be looking for her, the first place he would undoubtedly go to _Bruce's home…_

Voices. She heard voices.

Rachel gasped at the sound and pulled herself behind the warehouse wall, peering over the edge as the voices came closer. There were at least three of them, sounding frantic, uttering chains of curses and cries. She recognized them as mobsters by their all-too-familiar faces, though the fact that those faces were contorted in panic made them almost unrecognizable outside of the courtroom. They were _running,_ fleeing from warehouse number six, towards a car parked within the alley they began to disappear into, as if some monster would burst through the doors and come nipping at their heels.

When she emerged from her hiding place, it became painfully obvious where the Joker was lying in wait. The white number marking the sixth warehouse was smeared over with blood red splotches, the thick liquid oozing down across the six into a strange horizontal pattern. She peered closer and saw it resembled _him_—a bloodied, dripping curve of a smile, topped by an oozing red stare.

She ran towards the building as the mob car zoomed past, every last second another second the Joker could have made his escape.

oOo

The first thing she saw past the heavy warehouse door was fire.

Rachel hid behind a cluster of barrels at the very back of the room as she stared up at the flames, felt the heat searing and licking at her skin even from her distance. The shadows of figures twisted across the orange cast of the fire, and as she raised her head just slightly above the barrels she could make out the back of a familiar green head, pacing steadily before the source of the flames. A huge pile of money was heaped before him in a pyramid fashion, its very tip ignited in a raging inferno that began to steadily course across each individual bill. It would take a half hour at the most for the entire thing to set aflame, taking the warehouse with it.

She could hear that high-pitched voice that filled her body with loathing. He was _speaking_ to someone, a familiar mobster in a leather jacket, his thick Russian accent doing nothing to offset the terror in his voice.

"This town _deserves_ a better class of criminal... and I'm gonna _give i_t to them. Tell your men they work for _me _now. This is _my_ city."

The Russian argued feebly, his anger masking his helplessness,

"They won't work for a freak!"

A pause, nothing but the crackling flames and the sounds of someone whimpering in the background. Then the Joker's voice returned, low and mocking and twisted in a snarl,

"A _fah-reak!_"

He tossed what she saw to be a knife to a masked man nearby, and three others identical to him went to grab the Russian mobster, who struggled futilely in their combined grip,

"Why don't we cut you up into little _pieces _and feed you to your pooches? _Hmm?_ And _then_ we'll see how _loy_-al a hungry dog _really_ is!"

The mobster screamed as he was hoisted away, and then the Joker seemed to be alone, save for the strange whimpering noise in the background, almost identical to the cries she had heard in her phone. He was hunched over, still pacing, eyeing the flaming pile of money as it continued to disintegrate,

"It's not about _money_... it's about sending a _mes_-sage. _Everything burns_…"

A cackle burst from his red mouth, and Rachel found herself bringing the gun quietly from her coat pocket, finding this opportunity the best she could possibly have. His back was turned to her, the purple suit invitingly still, even as her shaking hands aimed for his frame from so far away…

"Am I _right,_ Ra-_chel_?"

His words came out in a satisfied hiss, and her heart leapt in her throat,

"You're a bit _late,_ you know. For a bloodthirsty mur-_der_-er, you sure have a shitty sense of _timing_!"

He had known she was hiding there, all along.

_How?_

The Joker whipped around, their eyes meeting instantly, his wide and dark with that sadistic hunger she had been so accustomed to seeing.

The flames shot up like a fiery aura behind his bloody smile, casting an orange glow over the sickly white pall of his leering face. Rachel felt the pang of hostility mixed with something else in her stomach that usually accompanied seeing him, though for once, that other emotion wasn't fear. She wasn't afraid of him anymore—not when she had found herself sinking so perilously close to his level. As she held her gun even with his face, he walked forward, unabashed by her weapon, his brows rising so high the black arches seemed to disappear beneath greasy locks of wild hair,

"But I brought you a purr_-es-_ent! Don't you want to _see_ it-_tuh_?"

The wildly accented voice, as random and chaotic as his own fearsome nature, oozed with excitement. Rachel's grip on her gun stiffened as she realized the Joker had no fear of her assault; of course, he feared _nothing,_ with his ready acceptance and carelessness towards death. It was all a random chain of events for him; everything was in a constant state of complete chaos. And for once, she thought she knew just how comforting that chaos could be, how it would feel to rely on nothing but primal instinct to guide your every action, uncaring as to binding law and restrictions that judged the value of a life.

It would be so _freeing,_ somehow—and as she looked into his shining black orbs she saw how he reveled in that utter freedom from rigidly defined humanity, from emotion and obedience.

That was why his offer of a present both piqued her curiosity and made her more wary.

Rachel knew she had been alive too long, playing in the Joker's games. He killed even his closest accomplices—what was she, a knowing _pawn, _still doing alive, without so much as disfigurement from his hands to show proof of their previous encounters?

_Unless he's not done playing the game. Unless I'm still the mouse, hanging by my tail, waiting to be dropped into his hungry jaws and devoured. _

Rachel eyed him cautiously; he returned her gaze with a cocked head, his arms folding before his purple-clothed chest,

"Hmph. _Well, _if you're_going_ to be a _spoil –sport_ about it, I might as well not show you at all! What a _waste_ of some good binding…"

He was muttering to himself, now, turning his back as if she wouldn't dare to fire a shot at him from behind, even as her fingers quivered on the trigger, her damnable curiosity growing to epic heights within her. She found herself peering over the barrel, standing to get a good look at what the Joker was walking towards. It was still too far from her vision to see, yet soon she was straining to see it, more from wonder than from anything else.

Rachel finally took a few steps forward, wondering if that very present she was aching to see wasn't going to kill her in a few fatal seconds of misjudgment.

Then she caught sight of what the Joker had been holding in store for her, and she had to bite her tongue to hold back the scream.

It was Maroni, tied and writhing wildly against thick, wiry rope in a tiny chair, his eyes bulging in panic as he screamed desperately against the gag tied securely around his mouth. His body seemed pale and colorless in his fear, a sharp contrast against the pulsing scarlet glow of the flames as they devoured the mob money, red as blood across his features. Rachel walked closer, her gun at her side, her mouth agape in sheer, stunned silence.

The Joker grinned with wicked delight, resting his head across Maroni's shoulder and cupping his chin in a gloved hand. He looked like a dog as his tongue flicked outward momentarily to wet his lips, his wide eyes and bloody grin as if he were proud of the dying carcass he had dragged in from his latest hunt. Maroni writhed even more intensely against his bonds as the Joker stroked the bottom of his chin, tilted his face left and right in his grip with a wicked cackle,

"Oh, _there_, there, shh-shh-_shh_! _I'm_ not going to kill you tonight, not when you've been so _useful_ to me, Maroni!"

He was stroking his cheeks as Maroni went from glaring to whimpering to a near-sob in the sociopath's iron grip. The Joker wouldn't stop smiling as he spoke, and Rachel found she was too slow to understand the double meaning in his words as he taunted the bound mob boss, pressing his white cheek against Maroni's,

"No, no, _no,_ that would take all the _fun_ out of the game! In order to make things more ­_in-_ter-_rest_-ing…we need to add some _op_-tions to the game, some _chance_."

He was playing with his prey, taunting it before he killed it. He continued to rub his cheek against Maroni's as he spoke, so roughly the side of his white face paint was coming off, leaving greasy trails against the mob boss's cheek. Maroni didn't seem to be paying attention to what the Joker was saying; he was still whimpering, staring at him with those bulging, frog-like eyes, and Rachel was stunned because she had _never_ seen him so weak and afraid before, never during their court spars, never in the interrogation sessions.

_People change when they're faced with death, Rachel. Even the most fearless, if they have something to live for._

Of course, the two of them were the exception—though she despised the thought of comparing herself to the bastard before her, who was currently cooing soothingly to his terrified little prisoner as if he weren't going to end up maiming him somehow. She knew better than to expect that, as she summoned all her strength to glare at the Joker and narrow her eyes,

"What are you talking about? Why do you have Maroni all tied up here?"

The Joker snorted, then, barely able to suppress a laugh in her direction. He cocked his head, leaning it against Maroni's cheek again, his fingers grabbing at the mob boss's other cheek and pinching so tightly Maroni was yelping in pain against his mouth gag,

"Well aren't _we_ a bit _suh-low_ tonight?! For a D.A., you're a _little_…clueless. I wasn't kidding when I told you I _brought_ you a present, you know."

Rachel stared at him as realization dawned upon her. Then her brow arched and she stepped backward a bit, repulsed,

"…This is my…_present?_ What do you expect me to…"

For once, the clown seemed exasperated. He rolled his eyes and gave a deep, mocking sigh, grabbing a small tank she hadn't previously noticed near the chair,

"Since you're _so_ very eager and _stupid_, here are the _op-_tions I mentioned before. Either _you_ give Ma-_ro_-ni here a taste of your newfound _justice_, because I know you are _dying_ to, or…"

The crooked smile seemed to carve a new gash into his face. In an instant, he raised the tank of gasoline and flung it towards Maroni, drenching his body in the flammable liquid, his hair matted to his forehead, a muffled scream of pain tearing from the gag as the gasoline seeped into his eyes. Rachel found herself gasping, now, though the emotions that fought within her were far from horror at Maroni's expense. She was horrified at the fact that any man could be so _twisted,_ so free of guilt or restraints that he would go as far as to set Maroni on _fire._

"…Ma-_ro­-_ni here will shoot up in _flames_ to be with the _number one love of his life!_" As he spoke, he stretched his arms out in a wide arc to encompass the burning, collapsing hilltop of money behind him, his features glowing like a sadistic jack-o-lantern, "And it's _aw_-fully fitting, isn't it, for Smarvey's _number-one killer_ to go the same _way?_"

Her body felt frozen as she stood there, contemplating his words. Was he doing her a _favor_, bringing Maroni here to be killed before her eyes?

But no—there were no _favors_ in the Joker's world. There was destruction that led to even more destruction in its wake. This wasn't to fix things; it was to make them_ worse_, because, in his world, the way things improved was if they were wrecked just a little more, to distance them away from any type of comfort, any type of order. Maroni's death would mean something else would break in the process, but what would it be?

She didn't want to think it was her sanity.

That had been in question for a long time, now.

Rachel had only then become aware that Maroni had been glaring at her, his bulging pink eyes filled with pure, maddened hatred. He was grunting words beneath the gag, which she could probably guess to be vulgar and explicit, aimed exclusively towards her. She remembered the countless agonizing days of unsuccessful trials due to sabotaged evidence and bribed policemen; the hard mockery in his eyes when she would question him during a case to no avail, the grin that carved his hard face when he managed to slip away, through bail or bribery, into another day of crime and murder and pain…endless days of worrying for Bruce's safety, worrying to read of Batman's downfall in the morning paper…

To think he would have a different type of smile carved upon his face now; red and bloody and lifeless.

It set her veins on fire; ecstatic, hungry fire. If this happiness was the price of her sanity, she wondered what type of rapture the truly mad would feel.

"Fine," she hissed, ready to turn her heel and walk out of the warehouse dismissively, "Let him burn with all his money. Just like all the innocent lives he's taken for it all."

As she walked, her feet making soft staccatos on the hard ground, a hand clamped around her shoulders like a vice, whipping her around almost violently. Rachel huffed and struggled against the Joker's fingers as they dug into her skin, momentarily forgetting she had a gun, yet he was too strong; she found herself staring into his boring black eyes, the irises glittering as violently as daggers lusting to penetrate her skin,

"But you haven't even con-_sid-_ered the other side of the coin, _have you_, beautiful?! How would it feel to put this…this…"

He turned his head sharply for a millisecond to gesture towards Maroni, who grew more and more panicked as the fire began to trail its agonizingly slow, steady descent across the top of the other half of disintegrating bills, coming closer and closer to his gasoline-soaked frame,

"…sniveling little co_-ward_ in his place?! Where he _really_ belongs, on the other end of your bullet, after he _wronged_ you, just like, ah…that little whore of an officer you _killed_ the other night?"

Rachel bit back a vicious, almost animalistic growl at his words of accusation,

"You _set_ her on me like a dog, Joker, and you know it!"

He chuckled, pulling her closer to him in one sharp movement, so that her struggling back was pressed against his hard chest, his scarred mouth brushing her ear,

"I only _indulged_ you in what you wouldn't readily _take-kuh._ You've been _dying_ to kill all these people, and you _know_ the feeling, just like _I_ know it. …The feeling of having some power in your life, some…_control…_some pure, unadulterated _cha_-os."

As he spoke, he raised her arm, clasping the gun and her hand in his hard, gloved fist. Rachel's stomach flipped at the contact; she wanted to say it was in disgust, repulsion, but the emotion wouldn't properly surface in her mind to be identified. It was the delirium, messing with her mind; the way he rasped in her ear like a serpent, tempting her to do what she ached to do deep within her damaged soul—to kill again, to kill for vengeance.

"Think about it like _this_," He offered, stroking the gun's tip with his fingers, the glove tracing across her skin in slow circles, "Maroni can't _kill _anymore if he's already dead. He can't _hurt_ you—why, look at him _now!"_

His voice exploded into a burst of giggles as he finished his last words, turning towards Maroni again. The man looked small and insignificant against the tower of flame behind him, his wide red eyes streaked and glassy with tears as he watched the two of them in desperation. The Joker turned back towards her, his red mouth set in a trembling line, as if barely suppressing the laughter,

"He couldn't even hurt a _fly_ if he tried! Doesn't that _excite_ you, to know that the man who hurt _so_ many people can never do it ag-_ain?_ That you could just…"

He brought the pistol to his forehead, making a popping motion with his mouth,

"buh-_low_ all the pain aw-_ay_? And you've done it _before_, and now you know I'm not so _crazy._ Not when you were on the other side, like _me,_ twisting the rules a bit for your own _pleasure_. For what the po-_lice_ and the _Bat_ won't give you, and that's _real_ justice—real _power._ And in Gotham…there's no real power except for the power you _steal_ for yourself. The _cha_-os you create."

As he spoke, he pulled her arm down, her fingers that could have so easily just pulled the fucking trigger and made him _shut up, stop playing with my mind,_ and pulled his body behind hers, so close she could feel every inch of his skin pressing against her back through his suit, the bulge of his pants pushing uncomfortably close to her backside. It was as if it excited him, manipulating her, to have the heat of the fire licking at their bodies and know that destruction was coming so close, in one form or another. He fed on this disorder, this pain, at the impending promise of blood to come—it was his nourishment, stronger than food or water or sex.

The Joker leaned his face near hers, the scars brushing against her cheek and sending a cold chill across her spine despite the searing heat that penetrated the warehouse in waves. His voice was a low, scratchy whisper,

"And I'm an _agent of cha-_os_."_

He was a master ventriloquist, and she was nothing more to him than a puppet.

Yet it didn't destroy the fact that Maroni was _right in front of her,_ and the Joker was gripping her hands in a vice, pointing her pistol straight at him. Her nerves leapt and soared in her jolting heart, and again, _again,_ she felt so fucking _alive_ that it was a horrible, disgusting thing to feel at the same time that she welcomed it. Fear rippled across Maroni's sweat-and-gasoline drowned face, such pure fear across the face of the usual mocking killer that she found it hard to ignore the vicious, carnal mirth that bubbled in laughter across her chest, which she subdued only to have it return in searing adrenaline in her veins. This was primal thirst in its barest of forms, an urge that she had kept carefully restrained in her career, masking the human need for vengeance by complex jargon and amendments and practices until it had been twisted into something ineffective and useless.

But as she held the gun towards Maroni's pain-stricken face, reducing the once almighty mob boss to a potential speck of dust beneath the Earth, she felt the raw power in her body and fed upon it like a voracious God.

A part of her hated herself for it.

A part that seemed to have no control over her body.

"If you really want me to kill him…"

Her voice was a strained whisper, yet he stiffened against her, soullessly black eyes burning through her as they listened,

"…Then take off his gag."

At first, the Joker was reluctant to follow her request. She felt a cold steel press against her delicate back, resolving that he had grown frustrated with her noncompliance and was going to stab her right this moment. Yet the steel only lingered there for a moment, as if yearningly, and then he was skipping forward, a taunting grin upon his features as he flashed the knife in the firelight, Maroni's face as sunken and white as a wraith at the sight.

Wordlessly, the Joker slashed away Maroni's gag, yet seemed to have deliberately missed at his left side. Maroni's bloodcurdling scream filled the tense air as a deep, bloody gash spread across his cheek, down towards the side of his neck.

"_Oops!_" The Joker chuckled, before twirling in place with a long chain of cackles that momentarily drowned the stream of curses and raging cries that burst from Maroni's mouth.

Rachel's grip shook for a moment, as her body urged her to pull the gun upon the Joker instead—yet she waited, her hatred seething anew as Maroni's eyes flicked towards her own, the hostility behind them already predicting the nature of his words,

"_You._ You stupid little fucking _bitch! _I shoulda _killed you_ with your little _squeeze_ back then, shoulda made it so you _both_ died! You fucking D.A.'s don't learn when one o' yous blows up, thinkin' you can just tie me up like the little scared whore you are, ain't got no balls to _fight_ me like a man, like your sonofabitch motherfucker _Harvey_ woulda—"

"SHUT UP!"

In the short amount of time Maroni had been speaking, Rachel had walked towards him, propelled by pure hatred, and now back-handed him viciously across his bleeding cheek, the powerful blow snapping his entire head to the side. Maroni howled with pain as the dribbling gasoline from his hair soaked into the opened cut, traces of violet growing in a nasty bruise beneath the splattered blood. The sight satisfied Rachel viciously, and she found it hard to look away from his agonized face.

The Joker's piercing laughter scorched the air like none of the flames could, as they began their slow descent across the sides of the money pile, dipping towards Maroni's still-struggling frame. He was behind her, again, lightning-fast for her disoriented senses, trailing his bloodied blade across her cheek, towards the back of her neck. He was raising her gun again with her hands, yet she didn't object, not when she was glaring at Maroni with that hardened hatred balled up in her gut, when she was so preoccupied with watching him _squirm._

She heard the mob boss's own laughter, now; weary, bitter laughter, laughter imbued with the same hatred that coursed through every nerve and vein and limb in her entire being. He was watching the gun in her hands with a wariness that made his laughter desperate and forced, and as he spoke again she seriously contemplated pulling the trigger if only to get him to shut up,

"No, you ain't gonna do it, ain't ya, Miss _D.A.?!_ I take back what I said, yous just as ball-less as Harvey was, all talk and no action, and look where he is now, huh—"

The ringing shot of a bullet pierced the air, followed by horrific, tortured screams. Rachel's hands shook uncontrollably against the gloved fingers that gripped them tightly, shaking with the laughter that rumbled against the Joker's chest as she realized what she had done. She had pulled the trigger, yet angled it so that it had shot through Maroni's foot. His feet were wriggling madly like frenzied worms, his face as red as if the blood had stained it completely, the mouth that had just only been cursing her opened in an O of endless screams.

It was so sickeningly, maddeningly _satisfying_, to hear an end to those curses. To hear him scream and cry just as Harvey had, when the explosion had torn his body apart, when she had wanted to somehow reach through that radio and save him.

The sharp coldness of a knife grazed her neck suddenly, leaving a hot pool of Maroni's blood along her bare skin. It slid in a slow line down her back, beneath the fabric of her sweater,

"How does it _feel?_" The high-pitched voice hissed against her ear, tongue flicking to almost lick across her earlobe, "How does it _feel_ to watch him _squirm,_ to hear him scuh_-ream?"_

She was silent, chest heaving, fingers trembling beneath the hand that still clung to her own, keeping them steady against her pistol. She didn't want to say it; didn't want to acknowledge the sheer wanton ecstasy that rocketed in the pit of her stomach, aching to burst free and possess her long enough for her to _pull the fucking trigger into Maroni's gut._

The tempter behind her was impatient; his hips grazed against her back as he thrust his blade against her throat, lips on the lobe of her ear, as if planning to bite it off,

"_Tell me. Tell_ me and _kill him,_ and I'll spare you a _lit_-tle longer."

She laughed, then. She couldn't help it. It was a tiny chuckle, bitter and drawn from the vestiges of her sanity,

"Stupid words to say when you know I don't care about my life."

A grin. The bumps of the scars pressed against her cheek, as if caressing her,

"_Ah._ Seems I've forgot-_ten_ that part. I can _barely _smell the fear on you, after all…_but _I can _feel_ the bloodlust, the violent _urge._ How many people would _kill_ to be in your po-_si_-tion, to have so much…con-_trol_ over their lives. To take it all _back._ It's what you've wanted for _so_ long, I can feel it just _lusting_ within you…so do it. _Do_ it!"

The excitement tipped his voice sharper than the knife that went to graze and bite into her thigh, sharper even than the twisted pain that covered every inch of Maroni's once composed features as he waited for the movement of her still fingers on the trigger again. Everything was hanging in the balance; everything was hanging on _her_ shoulders, on the twitch of her fingers. She could change _everything_. She could rid herself of this man, she could make it up to all the lost lives beyond her reach in countless failed cases, could make it up to their _families_…

_You could make it up to yourself, won't have to feel so weak anymore….for once in your life, you could have all the power you want._

Her body shuddered against the hiss of the man behind her, against the scrape of metal against her thigh. She could feel him press so close to her, his hot skin plastered to her against the sweat of the flames that now coursed dangerously close to the bottoms of the money pile. Maroni had noticed, his twisted screams echoing endlessly across the warehouse, and it wouldn't be long before someone heard those desperate sobs and cries, before someone was curious and suicidal enough to investigate. She had to make her choice, and she had to make it fast.

The fire was devouring the money with a surprising quickness, now, gluttonous and relentless, reducing the paper into black, curling clumps, a few stray flames spreading across the floor, inching closer and closer toward Maroni with each passing second. His screams grew more intense, more hopelessly desperate; _No,_ he screamed, _no, please, not this way, not like this, no—_

For an instant it was Harvey, tied within the chair, his body flailing mercilessly against the ropes that bound him, his eyes desperately clinging to the fleeting hope of survival that had drained away within the last passing seconds of his life, a horrified cry caught in his throat, on his lips, in Rachel's panicked mind, and she just wanted to make it stop, she just wanted to silence the screams, to make all of this _stop—_

Her eyes were closed as her fingers touched the trigger, as the scarred smile spread against the back of her neck, a sob in her throat—

A cry from her own lips as her gun clattered to the floor, blood trailing across the very tips of her fingers. The Joker's grip was hard upon her shoulders as she stared down at the object near her fallen pistol: a black disc, shaped in the shape of a Bat.

As the realization struck her, so did a heavy black mass, its entire weight bearing down straight upon her stunned body.


	10. Ten: Grave

AN: So sorry this took forever. Classes just started and things have been hectic. Plus, this chapter was admittedly pretty difficult to write out. Forgive me for any slump in writing quality in this installment, the next will be much better, promised. :) Also, I will get to replying to ALL of your reviews very soon, as I've slumped in review replies, and for that I am really sorry. Expect replies to the last chapter promptly by tomorrow! And THANK YOU EVERYONE for taking the time to read this story! I refuse to abandon it…I've abandoned a lot of 'fics before this one but I am determined to finish this out to the end, especially since it's starting to get interesting. :)

Enjoy loves,

xxnadsxx.

* * *

**Dark Humor**

**Ten**

"_A trauma powerful enough to create an alternate personality leaves the victim in a world where normal rules of right and wrong no longer apply..."_

_-Batman Forever_

* * *

Her head cracked against the ground with a burst of hot, searing pain. Multicolored sparks shot against darkness for behind her eyes, her breath tangled in her throat. Gasping, she grabbed her temples and took in a deep breath, her vision refocusing as she lay against the floor just in time to see Batman peering down at her for a fleeting instant. He seemed satisfied she was alright, because just as soon as he had knocked her to the floor he was grabbing hold of the Joker's shoulders, forcefully dragging him away from her fallen frame, his eyes pitch and murderous within the mask. The Joker's feet were swinging madly in the air as Batman grabbed him, his lips uttering both half-chuckles and grumbles of protest,

"And look who came _right_ at the punch-line to ruin _all the fun!_ What would it _kill_ for you to just _live a little, _Batsy?!"

Batman looked as if he would like nothing better than to throw the Joker's now tauntingly smiling face into the spreading fire behind them. His grip moved from the Joker's shoulders to his neck as he replied in his hoarse voice,

"You would take an innocent girl and twist her to play into your little games, Joker? Why can't you just do the dirty work yourself and leave Gotham's D.A.'s alone!"

The Joker was coughing against Batman's iron grip around his neck; but as the vigilante spoke, a high, twisted cackle rose from his cracked red lips,

"_Twist_ her to play into _my games?! _Honestly, Batsy, this _crime-fighting_ business is making you a _lit-_tle out of sync with _reali-_ty—"

"LEAVE RACHEL ALONE!"

Another cackle burst from Joker's lips as Batman's grip tightened; his face was flushed pink beneath the stark white makeup, yet he barely fought the vigilante back, his hands still hanging limply at his sides, his struggling breath caught between gasps of air and amused chuckles,

"Oh _puh_-lease, you think you can _threat-_en me at _all_ if you don't even have the strength to _kill_ me?! Why _Ra-_chel and _I,_ we have a very, ah…_special relationship,"_

Rachel was pulling herself to her knees as she watched the two speak, momentarily mesmerized. The Joker enunciated the phrase of his last sentence by curling two fingers of each of his hands as if they were quotation marks—he even sought her gaze as Batman continued to steadily choke him, winking mockingly. She gripped her gun tightly, ignoring the searing pain against her knuckles as he continued,

"We _both_ know that in or-_der_ to properly _save_ Gotham, we have to _kill_ a few people here and there…and this time _I_ was no-_thing_ but an unwilling _accomplice!—_"

Beneath the mask, she knew Bruce was seething—he growled in bestial frustration and slammed the Joker down against the hard ground, the back of the madman's head hitting the floor so hard she could have sworn she heard a sharp _crack._ Yet he lay there in a fit of whooping, cackling laughter, blood matted against his greasy green-tinted locks of hair, his kohl-drowned eyes teary with both pain and intense mirth.

Batman hovered over the laughing, bloodied madman. His gaze, even partially hidden by his thick mask, sent horrified chills down Rachel's spine. It was pure fire, brighter and redder than even the bursting flames that cast his silhouette in an orange glow; fire and bloodlust and rage, almost matching her own. And the Joker was still provoking him, his face contorted in a fit of giggles rivaling the obvious pain lingering beneath the layers of face paint and mirth,

"You're just a _freak,_ Batsy! You're the freak in this room for standing out, the freak of _Goth-_am, when everyone agrees with _me!_ Besides, why would you even _care _when you were going to let little darling _Ra-_chel go KA-BOOM?!"

He went to grab the Joker again, digging clenched gloved hands into the green of his vest, the Joker's pure delighted laughter throbbing in her ears as he raised him again,

"Don't believe his _lies,_ Rachel!"

"Lies?!" The clown spat back, scarred lips curling from his yellow teeth, "Go ahead and _deny_ the fact you were going to save Harvey instead! Is that what a _hero _does, Batsy, leave their _dearest friends _to die? Maybe you're not such a _hero _after all!"

As he spoke, Batman growled and flung his arm back, his fist driving straight into the Joker's cheek. Blood splattered from the laughing mouth against white skin and the ground below, staining his scarred lips with glistening red spittle, the cracks between the yellow teeth red and dark and shining,

"Why try and prove your innocence to the Bat any longer, _Ra_-chel, when he wanted you _dead_ in the first place?!"

A cry of outrage burst from the masked vigilante's lips, and for a moment Rachel saw nothing but murder in Bruce's eyes. It was as if she could no longer recognize him, as if he, too, were being changed, crumbling away with all the rest of Gotham,

"Don't play into his mind games, Rachel!"

Then he pulled his fist back again, and she knew this blow would be harder than the others, if only to silence the taunting, sneering bloodied face before him, if only to make him stop hurting her—

A scream of intense pain filled the room, cutting the tension like a razor to the skin. Both Batman and the Joker turned to stare at the twisted, agonized cries, the Joker's face alit and smiling with even more pleasure than moments before, Batman's eyes wide in sheer dread beneath the mask. Rachel turned just quickly enough to see the dark blur that was Batman rushing across the searing hot air towards Maroni, whose ankles were now dancing with hot, hungry flames, the fire exploding across his calves with frightening speed.

She was stunned to find herself merely watching, her legs like lead, when only days ago she would have gone to help Maroni before resorting to _this._

"_No!"_ The mob boss was screaming, his face shaking and bloated like a toad, his wide eyes seeming to quiver in their sockets, pink and teary with pain, "_No, _yous stay away from me, stay _away_!"

He was trying to kick Batman as the vigilante used a bat-shaped disc to hack away at his bindings, the resistance only allowing the fire to crawl up his knees towards his thighs, hungry and voracious. Rachel was on her feet, her gun in hand, completely silent as the Joker surveyed the scene with an immense, almost sickening smugness on his features. Blood trailed across the back of his neck, the side of his white face jagged with gravel, the black makeup running from his eyes to his cheeks, his ever-smiling lips curved upwards nearly ear-to-ear as he almost _admired_ Maroni's body bursting in flame.

If Harvey were still alive, she may have been disgusted at the depth of his vicious ecstasy at Maroni's pain. She may have been anything but relieved, a strange fluttering joy in her stomach at the sight of Maroni's mouth opened in an orifice of pained cries, as Batman struggled to release him from his bonds. Yet the fire continued to rise up towards his chest, following the trail of gasoline, not strong enough to outright kill him. It was slowly burning at his layers of skin, reducing the tough flesh to oozing, bubbling liquid, snapping every nerve and leaving nothing but an eventual twisted mess of disfigured skin and bones. He would die an agonizing death, long, tortuous minutes before his life seeped painfully away.

God, it was so…horrifically _wonderful_, the way the image filled her with prickling warmth, as Batman hovered over Maroni's writhing body and struggled to push the protesting screaming man back and forth to futilely stop the fire. She wasn't aware of anything for that very small moment of bitter satisfaction until the Joker's howling laughter shattered her thoughts, and she saw the wraith-like face fixated on her expression, grinning and all-knowing as if she were transparent,

"_This_ is Gotham's _true_ form of _just_-ice!" He shrieked, his arms thrown into the air triumphantly as he skipped forward and kicked a worn leather-shoed foot forward.

A blade burst forth just beneath the sole of his shoe, and he brought it forward, kicking Batman straight in his back. The vigilante who had been so fixated with helping Maroni grunted in pain and fell forward as the blade slashed through his thick armor and bit into skin. Maroni was still writhing beneath him, the wooden chair knocked to the ground, the weight of the Batman pressed heavily upon his struggling figure, and for a sickening moment Rachel thought the flames had caught onto Batman's suit, melting into his torso…

"Stop!"

She screamed, as the Joker went to kick at Batman's fallen frame again, and almost comically, his foot swinging with the readiness of his second blow, the Joker froze in mid-air, craning a cocked head to watch her. She was holding her gun straight at him, her fingers quivering. Of course, her threat was empty—she _could_ shoot him, but even if she _did,_ he wasn't afraid of it. He welcomed it. Which was why, as she held her gun at his still frame, his abysmal eyes widened with the admiration of a mother teaching a young child to behave properly, his smile like blood in milk,

"Go ahead!"

She froze. Her fingers wouldn't _work,_ refused to pull the trigger, though her gun was trained on him. Batman was hacking frantically away at the roping that now burned across Maroni's flaming body, the mob boss writhing free beneath him—

A cry of pain; the Joker's blade struck at Batman's back again, and he fell forwards against the burning, screaming man, his face dangerously close to the fire, and the Joker cackled and brought his foot forward again,

"Why don't we _make_ that face a _lit-_tle less serious, burn some of the _nega-_ti-_vity_ away?!"

His foot was about to drive down again; the blood-splattered madman cocking a head as if to examine Batman's hunched frame, at the fire traveling faster across Maroni's body, so close to Batman's head even as he struggled to pull himself upwards—

The Joker's piercingly high cackle shot through her ears as spurts of blood raked the air. Her chest heaving, dread tightening her stomach into knots, she fell to her knees as the gun collapsed beneath her. The madman was clutching onto his side, his usual mocking grin twisted into a grimace of pain and an almost savagely delighted snarl, his eyes bright against the black irises as he pulled away a blood-smeared hand and brought it to his lips, tasting the redness on his fingers. The bullet had grazed his side, yet it had done its damage, and her heart throbbed at the proximity of his death, at how _close_ she had been.

She wasn't aware he was walking towards her until she saw that he was a foot away, his body hunched towards his left side, hand clasped at the gun wound, the right side of his makeup-smeared face upturned in a bestial leer beneath the permanent grin,

"I have to admit, _Miss D.A.,_ I didn't think you had it in ya! Now _why_ don't we see what _else_ you have in_-side_ of you, hmm—"

Just as quickly as he had approached her, he was pummeled to the floor, a mass of purple and green fighting against winged black. Batman was pummeling into the Joker's chest, the laughing, sadistic clown's eyes filled with rabid excitement as he fought back with kicks of his bladed shoe and frantic slashes of the knife in his gloved hands, neither one seeming to truly overpower the other in the fight of hard fists against biting steel.

But she couldn't watch.

She couldn't watch, couldn't hope to pick up the gun and force herself to shoot again, because as she scrabbled safely away from the fighting, still sprawled upon her knees, she heard a piercing cry behind her. It was a cry she recognized immediately; a product of rage, hatred, pain. The kind of cry that had haunted her mind these past few torturous days, yet manifested purely in the physical, in the almost eery red glow that filled her vision as she turned her head to seek out the source.

"You stupid _bitch!_ I'm gonna _KILL_ you, you hear, I'm gonna _KILL_ YOU!"

Maroni was running towards her, his body completely aflame, his face  
barley discernable against the fire that began to burn away at his skin, as if it were Harvey come from the dead, flailing with the intent to kill her. She was frozen there, on her knees, watching him as he ran for her, as Batman and the Joker continued to fight as the fire relentlessly ate away at the warehouse, ate away at Maroni's skin and sanity. He was screaming as he ran, screaming wordless cries, his eyes alit with fire more intense than the flames that ate away at every part of his body, that shattered his nerves and undoubtedly caused him so much pain he was barely capable of any rational thought.  
All he knew was that she should have been dead, she realized, and somehow she was avenging Harvey—and of course, it could only be her fault that he was in this predicament. That's what she presumed he was thinking, anyway, as he came closer and closer, his body flailing and shuddering and twitching, his arms held out to strike at her, hovering so close to her she could feel the heat of his burning body nearly scalding her, and he was reaching down and _if he touched her_ _she would burn and he was going to take her with him—_

_Bang._

He never had the chance.

His eyes rolled to the back of his head, blood sliding between them in thick black, a line of dark liquor to be voraciously consumed by the flames as he fell heavily backwards, inches away from her body, from the gun in her hands. Maroni was lying on the ground, the shot resonating through the air with enough loudness to nearly pop her eardrums as her heart throbbed inside of them, then gathered in pulsating quickness into her shaking fist as she held the gun that had killed him. The fire seemed more intense, now, more final as it swept across his still body in fresh hot waves, eating hungrily away at the thin layer of skin like paper. Her chest was heaving, her hair wet and matted against her face with sweat, her mind otherwise numb and mute and seething with primal, shameful ecstasy, consuming her like the fire itself that consumed the dead body before her. She was still alive, she had saved herself again, and the rush of her near-death was pounding inside of her like tribal drums, rampant and chaotic and melodious in its skewed rhythmic fervor.

She was _alive,_ and the man who had been the very instrument of nearly _killing_ her was gone, never to hurt her again.

He was dying as Harvey had died. The thought made her brain quiver with its implications, with the sweet irony of it all. She would have laughed hysterically at her predicament if it wasn't for the discomfort of the fire so close to her, of the eyes that penetrated into her skull even as she lay there, shuddering and struggling to regain her composure. Batman's stare was twisted beneath his mask, his eyes almost as frighteningly blank as the holes in which he watched her through, still as black stone even as the Joker stood near him. He seemed transfixed, distracted, as if he were  
staring through her, seeing a phantom of what she had been for the very first time.

And she realized that she had just sabotaged his mission, had killed what he had wanted to keep alive…

Clapping, nearly on the other end of the room, echoing across the silence and the crackling of the flames as they spread to devour the wooden columns, the walls, the rafters. It pounded in her numbed brain just as forcefully as the bullet had, the bright red smile dripping in the heat like the blood between Maroni's eyes,

"Oh, brav-_o_!"

The Joker's clapping was fast as he paced across the end of the room, too far for Batman to reach in time if he had decided to run for the door, too far for her bullet to hit if she had wanted to shoot him again. He seemed unfazed by the blood along his side—if anything, he looked gleeful, even happier than he had appeared before she had wreaked havoc with her gun. It was almost…smugness in his gaze, his beady-eyed stare flushed red and demonic against the fire that ate away at the walls, his stare nearly as unnerving at Batman's.

The two men were staring at her—Bruce, as if he had never seen her before in his life, and the Joker, as if she were some great work of his that he leered at with pride, as if he had created her somehow…as if she were _his_. And the difference in those boring stares unnerved her to no end, brought her to her feet, shaking and backing away from them with slow steps.

"We've put on _quite_ the show for _Bat_-sy, haven't we?! Well I'm _sure_ you know what the, ah…the _mo_-ral of this story _is,_ don't you?"

His arms crossed before his chest as he cocked his greasy head, the black eyes pools of depthless ridicule as they watched Batman, the vigilante's fist curled, his lip forming a bestial snarl,

"_Cha_-os is supreme. And not even your _stu-_pid little laws can stop it, not even your little girlfriend can keep herself from being, ah, cor-_rup_-ted! I hope you _know_, Batsy, you're the real _FREAK_ in this room. Because when all the…the _cards_ are laid out, be-_lieve_ me when I say that your _D.A._ _dar-_ling is going to topple with Harvey and come down to _our level_—"

His words erupted into a fit of cackles as Batman rushed for him, cape fluttering behind him with the speed of his lunge, nose flared and snarling like a bull, power in his raging limbs. The Joker was skipping backwards towards one of the warehouse doors, giggling and whooping as Batman came nearer only to be distanced again by the clown's retreat, throwing his arms out tauntingly before him,

"Time's up, time's up, time's _upppp_! I'm late for a _date_, wouldn't you  
know, I'm afraid I'll have to _jilt _you, _Bat_-sy! But it's okay—I left some fuh-_riends_ to play with!"

As he said this, the clown-masked goons from before burst through the door, three of them headed straight for Batman. The Joker was watching with vicious delight as Batman gave into the distraction and fought their assaults, his head turning for a millisecond in her direction. She could do nothing but stare at him as his cracked, bloody grin shot from ear to ear, a gloved hand tracing his side where her bullet had nearly penetrated, a knowing look in those abysmal eyes.

_One in the same_, that gaze hissed tauntingly to her,_ we're one in the same and you've just proven it, even to your little Bat-boy. Now what will you do—now that you're a _freak,_ too?_

She found no answer to the silent words as he turned and, his arms still waving in the air, nearly flew out the door with a jump, two of his henchmen following. The others lay upon the ground within minutes, beaten badly by Bruce, whom she could only guess to be beyond the point of frustration, submerged in a dangerous rage.

_No, I can't let him sink to my level. I can't let him fall with me. He shouldn't have to mourn me, shouldn't have to end this way…_

It shouldn't have been this way in the first place. But they weren't able to make that choice. He had made it, and now she was the one to take the fall for it. And in his eyes, as he watched her in silence, the burning body between them, the fire churning around them, she knew from that point that they were utterly unsalvageable. There was no way to quench the fire inside of her—her only option was to let it burn, to let it destroy, until everything smoldered into ash and she was left with the barest bones of herself. As he merely turned his head and walked away, betrayal in his eyes, she stood there with her gun, watching everything around her burn.

She didn't bother leaving as the rafters began to fall, the first sign of the building's collapse. Instead, she merely stood there for a little longer, the way a loved one would while overlooking the grave long after the funeral. Watching the pieces fall away, watching the control slide from her hands, realizing what little power she had over her life, how little control she had always had. Rachel was staring at a grave; not Maroni's, as he lay there, his body quickly wasting away in the fire, limp and slack and disfigured. Her own grave lay there, somewhere, slowly digging its way into existence with each passing day, her body already lying in wait. All that was left was the burial.  
She finally turned, walking towards the door as the sound of sirens from far away pierced the evening air.

But she couldn't help but look over her shoulder as she left, watching her former self alight in flames, devoured utterly by chaos.


	11. Eleven: Hunt

AN: Wow. Please, don't kill me...everyone... I am SO sorry this chapter took forever to put up! In all honesty, most of it was already written out, but I didn't have the time to look it over or finish it up until tonight...school is taking away lots and lots of time. :x I do promise though that I will finish this 'fic as soon as I can, maybe even try to post up some chapters every weekend...it all depends on how much work school decides to throw at me, hah. But I'm sure you all understand that, school makes life pretty hectic indeed...

Anyways, here is chapter 11 (finally), and the rest will come sooner than this installment...I promise you...especially chapters 14 onward, while 12 and 13 might be a tad slow to come. 14, I'm pretty sure, is the super mature chapter, a quarter-to-half (maybe even more) of which is going to be posted on because it's too mature to just post in its entirety on this site. :\ But I'll have a link to it in the story when the time comes, don't worry! I think I'll be ending this around 18 or 19 chapters with an epilogue (which was already written...heh), so...yeah, this 'fic still has awhiles to go ;. I'm not finished having fun with everyone yet...

And yep, it just gets darker here on out folks. Consider...um...chapter 12 onward to be upped to R/Mature rating.

Also, for the letter coming up, since does not do strikethrough formatting, _Italics_ will be Rachel's thoughts, or how she would have originally written the letter without scribbling her thoughts out, and normal, un-italicized type is...how the letter is actually written. Okay? Okay!

So, as usual, feedback is loved, read and...ENJOY!

Love,

xxnadsxx.

* * *

**Dark Humor**

**Eleven**

"_A trauma powerful enough to create an alternate personality leaves the victim in a world where normal rules of right and wrong no longer apply..."_

_-Batman Forever_

* * *

_"Dear_

Bruce,

_Please stay_

_I'm so sorry_

_What I do is none of your busin-_

It's a little ironic that my last note wasn't exactly the farewell I had intended it to be. That, right now, this is my final goodbye, and there really isn't any reason for you to see me again.

I don't really think you want to anymore, anyway.

I hope you don't see me as a criminal, or doing this out of some petty reason. It's funny, but I hope you don't hate me after this. Even if you want to forget me completely, or even if you're angry at me, or feel as if I've betrayed you, somehow—please don't hate me. Please don't stop believing in people, because even after all this, you should still believe that we all have some good in us no matter what. Gotham is counting on you to believe in that.

But you don't have to have any hope for me anymore. You don't have to worry about me. I no longer qualify as a 'person'—for now, in my mind, at least, I'm a vendetta. And I'm doing it for you, and for Gotham as well. Please believe me when I say that I wish things could have turned out differently for both of us, but they haven't _and it's too late so don't get mixed up in this—_

but all we can do now is pick up the pieces, and try to move on.

It's not who I am underneath, but what I do, that defines me,

_Your frie—_

Rachel."

oOo

Fingers clasped the crisp envelope in a grip so firm she knew it was only to keep herself from letting her body pry it from her fingers. Rachel was standing at the door of Wayne Manor, the gigantic abode towering above her and making her appear as feeble as she felt, her lips pursed in a thin line, her hollow, sleepless eyes dark-ringed and staring at the door she had just knocked once, twice. There was no need to appear presentable, when the rest of the world seemed to be in shambles—anyway, it was impossible not to see the wraith hidden beneath her glassy blue eyes.

Hours seemed to pass before the heavy door abruptly swung opened, Alfred's kindly face peering through the shadows of the manor recesses at the crack of dawn. She could make out the fatigue that lined his face, obviously having woken him up from a deep sleep, yet hadn't been anticipating the surprise that accompanied it. There was no hostility in those gentle eyes, and for that she was glad. She wanted to see his face for the last time as an imprint of kindness in her mind—as a constant.

Alfred's pale, wrinkled face curled into a small smile as he briefly looked over her stiff frame, resting with a long pause upon the envelope, then meeting her eyes again.

"It's good to see you again, Miss Dawes," he began automatically, a broken record in her memories, "Have you come to see Master Wayne?"

The tone in his voice seemed an already-answered question, carrying a heavy, almost sympathetic finality that did not go unnoticed by her sharp ears. She kept her gaze as resolutely fixed upon his as she could, fingering the envelope unsteadily before pushing it forward between their still hands,

"I wanted to give him this before…before I left."

Her voice didn't crack. Perhaps she had more strength than she felt she had at that moment, with her shoulders hunched and her lips pursed tight, the very countenance of a rigid statue. Alfred's eyes flicked sharply to the envelope again before returning to meet her stare, understanding passing between the both of them. He would refuse to show it to Bruce, of course, just like her last possible death-note. Always the self-appointed caretaker, to pamper his master with lies, hiding away anything from the real world that could cause him harm in his vigilante pursuits.

She didn't blame him. She was once that way, too, a long time ago.

"Please."

The world fell from Rachel's lips as if it had come from a beggar on his knees. Sympathy poured from Alfred's wizened eyes, sympathy that almost overwhelmed her with its crippling strength. She could so easily wander into the recesses of the Manor, give into the sudden pull, rest her head against the guestroom bed and feel Bruce's hands against her, comforting, powerful, safe. She would be _safe,_ if only momentarily—if only in theory, in _hallucination._

_What I would give to be ignorant again, to be under Harvey's wing, with my nose upturned and all the world beneath me, living valiantly in my little blanket of blind justice…_

"Alright."

He nodded; and the envelope fell into his opened hands. It was done. Alfred was signing her away, somehow, knowing this was beyond him—beyond even Bruce himself. She couldn't bring herself to fully measure the sadness in those aged, knowing eyes as they watched her turn forcefully on her heel, descend the steps of the Manor one last time. She measured each step carefully as she went, curiously heavy with the eyes boring into her back, until she was feet away from the Manor itself, until she heard the door slam. Until the Manor was nothing more than a pinpoint of darkness, just another spot of black in Gotham's bleeding horizon.

oOo

It was dark in her new home. Dark, grimy, filthy—

She had trouble telling it apart from the rest of the world.

She had rented a room; she wasn't sure where, some dilapidated motel at the fringes of downtown. Faces had passed her as she wandered through the rank, dirty halls; faces of people she once regarded with interest, curiosity, faces that now passed in a blur of red and black and paranoia. She wondered if each one carried a hidden motive, if one would emerge from the pack, scarred and wild-eyed, to slash at her in a moment of weakness.

When she had shut and bolted the door, triple-checking the locks, she wished she could deny it was because she had lost her trust in people.

She was lying in her bed—a mattress on creaking wheels, as small and confining as a hospital gurney, a stretcher. She tried to ignore the wet spot at the edge of its badly torn surface, or the fact that the arctic air through the broken vent cast chills across her spine as she tried to sleep.

_Sleep._

It was more like a struggle.

Who was she kidding? She couldn't even _try_, couldn't even get herself to close her eyes. All she could see were the twisting shapes of the darkness before her, infinite and thick and suffocating in her tiny new room, afraid it would somehow take solid form and batter her frail body. Her breath was short and shallow, and for a moment she felt like an object; a wiry basin collecting the cold and the dark and substituting it for oxygen until it slowly began to erode the thin wooden skin, her thin wooden brain.

_Snap out of it, Rachel. You're just tired._

Tired.

The word was a cruel understatement. _Tired._ Who were the people to invent the diction of the English language, to twist complex emotions with mockingly simple expressions? _Tired_ couldn't even begin to describe her; fatigued, exhausted, worn out, beat…

Slowly, compulsively, a giggle rose from her lips at her thoughts. Here she was, lying awake and damaged and _beat_ at an hour where the portion of Gotham's finest citizens were asleep in their comfortable little homes, shrouded in normalcy and ignorance. The only people up this night were people asking for trouble, the homeless and thieves and criminals…

_And the freaks._

No.

She wasn't one of _them_. She prosecuted them, punished them, locked them up and made sure they wouldn't wreak anymore havoc on Gotham's streets again. It ensured she was always a cut above, was always _better_, somehow. More moral, more stable, _more confined, more restricted, living more of a lie—_

"Stop. It."

She hissed to nothing, to no one, but the boring eyes of the darkness that watched her, breathing mutely with each cold chill pressing upon her bare skin as she lay confined in her stretcher-mattress. The darkness was so much like those eyes, those penetrating, violating black eyes in swirls that raped her with every unblinking stare; every gaze straight into her soul to grasp hold of her flaws and her imperfections and tear her carefully built foundation apart. It was more terrifying than any physical cut, any tear of knife against flesh. More devastating that the greatest weapon against herself lay _within_ herself, breathing and conscious and growing like some black, demonic seed, eating away at everything until there was nothing left but a gutted emptiness where her heart and soul had been. She grit her teeth and clutched her thin sheet against her breast, for a sickening moment reduced to a child hiding its head beneath the covers, wanting to protect itself, thinking that if she couldn't see _it_ then it wouldn't be able to see her. Hurt her. _Kill_ her.

She wasn't afraid of death. She knew that, she knew that _he_ knew that; she had even _confessed_ it. She was afraid of the other ways in which he could kill her. The other ways in which she was knowingly killing _herself._

She hadn't eaten in so long; she could register this in the emptiness she felt, the weakness. So frail, nothing but papery skin and bone, not quite so sure of what remained of the organs that lay within her, the mythological existence of a soul. Her _soul._ Maybe that was what had been drained of her the past few days—her chance at _salvation._ At redemption. Maybe God—if there was some sort of God up there, in Gotham's dreary, faceless skies—maybe God had abandoned her, had left her to play mind games with Satan himself.

Or maybe she had chosen to slight Him, and she was slowly but surely disintegrating by her own will, becoming one with the darkness and the Satan that contorted it so expertly in his dancing black irises.

Another laugh, this one from deep down within her throat, more of a reflex; almost like breathing. She had never been one for dramatics, for all this self-pity. It had always been dedication to others, for the expense of herself; always like some sort of sacrifice, rushing headfirst into the D.A. position, an embodiment of the perfect, ideal justice that they all knew to be nothing more than a child's fantasy in the twisted playground of Gotham's streets.

She had never had time to concentrate on _herself—_to be so fully and utterly alone, with none there to whisper words of influence in her ear, no Harvey at her side to keep her vigilant, to keep her stubbornly believing, time and time again, that there would be _some_ ultimate resolution, some full circle to outweigh the overwhelming crime that plagued Gotham with a miraculous downpour of justice. They had even counted on Batman to bring that ultimate justice, had even vainly hoped that _one man_ behind a feeble little _mask_ would be enough to battle the city itself.

_We're all so foolish._ I _was foolish._

As if an afterthought, eyes lingered towards the crumpled papers at her side, wrinkled news headlines balled away in feeble fury, as if it would put an end to the contents within. Bold letters haunted her within the darkness, outlined as if illuminated from inside:

**GOTHAM CITY A CIRCUS AT HANDS OF MASS-MURDERING CLOWN**

**CITIZENS GRIEVE LOSS OF WHITE KNIGHT**

**DENT'S FUNERAL FOILED: WHERE IS BATMAN?**

_Where is Batman?_

As the darkness of sleep pressed around her, as sudden and final as a fatal blow, she wasn't sure if even a human as insane and enraged as Batman could save this city without dying inside.

oOo

Her phone was ringing. She was barely aware of its incessant humming against the quiet darkness; her hand slumped forward to stroke its side, her fingers falling slack and careless within seconds. Let it ring. It didn't matter anymore. She just wanted to rest.

Minutes passed; hours, maybe. Time was lost to her for the moment, as she shifted restlessly against the narrow bed, beads of sweat rolling across the nape of her neck. Burning, save for the cold metallic feel of the phone against her fingers. It was still vibrating as frantically as it had before, its bright green glow casting an almost sickly sheen against the darkness. She fumbled for it, her fingers twitching with every intent to fling it across the wall, watch it break into a million pieces, _destroy destroy destroy _because nothing seemed eternal or constant anymore, everything changed no matter how badly she wanted to preserve it all--

_Of course._

Bruce's name lit the phone's glossy surface in fractured digits. She watched the voicemails pile, letting the vibrations hum through her palm for timeless minutes; _five, six, seven, eleven..._

Her teeth grit, the sticky heat only edging her onto frustration.

Hadn't she told him to leave her _alone?_ Did he understand the implications of a farewell letter?

She couldn't deny the momentary flutter in her chest at the sight of his name, yet...it was fading. It was fleeting; nothing in comparison to the sickening ache she used to feel, the incessant tugging at her insides whenever he came near, as if they had been attached by a thin hook through their hearts, tugging them painfully together until the pain was unbearable the further apart they were. That was nonexistent, now; it was only smatterings of the past, and then the sickly churning of outrage in her gut at his stubbornness.

Her frustration continued to stoke and ebb with each passing second, the phone nearly making her palm numb in its urgency.

_Twenty voicemails._

What was going _on?_

She needed to get him to stop. To shut _up._ To die away from her life, to make this process easier for the both of them. The heaviness of the days she had suffered weighed down upon her throat as she sighed, dialed the number and mentally composed herself for her calm, cool tantrum.

"Rachel?"

She hadn't been able to get a word out; the frantic voice didn't miss a beat. There was no guilt to drown her in waves at the horrifically twisted anxiety in his voice; she was blinking back tears of rage, biting down gently on her tongue to keep from shouting, the pain between her ears intensifying,

"_Yes_."

It was all she could say, a confirmation. She waited as the crackling pause ensued on the other end, each silent second blazing with panic on the other line, something unsaid, something hidden from her. Her nails dug into her palm, cut the skin with white-knuckled force, her eyes wrenching shut,

"Bruce, _why_ did you call me? What do you _want_? I thought I made it clear--"

"Rachel, you need to get out of there."

She found it was her turn to go quiet. The rage went dormant within her, replaced by a tingling cold that chilled the sweat along her spine. Suddenly, she was aware of how compacted she was in this room, how _confined,_ as if the walls were bearing down on her, grating her, watching her as they pressed upon her with crushing eyes. She pressed the phone hard against her ear, pulled herself to her knees,

"what are you _talking_ about? If you think you can get me back into your manor--"

"No, goddamnit, _no,_ Rachel, you _have to listen to me!_"

The voice on the other end was nearing a hysterical scream. She had _never_ heard him like this, before, had never heard him so...panicked, so frightened in her life. It chilled her, brought the hellishly scorching room to a prickling subzero as she found herself pacing the creaking floor, her eyes darting frantically from one blank wall to the next.

"Rachel, you need to leave right now, and I don't care where you go, I just want you out of there until I can track you down and help you. There are _people after you,_ nobody can be trusted, don't talk to _anyone_--"

"You're not making any sense, Bruce," she was hissing, her eyes wide as she grabbed her keys, pausing at the closed door as a part of her regarded his words with shocked skepticism, "I don't understand how I could be in any more danger than I am right now."

A pounding at her door.

Her ears throbbed with each forceful crash. Her breath halted, then quickened with her pulse, as she automatically jerked away from the door, eyeing the tiny window at the side of her room. Bruce was quiet on the other end, obviously having heard the noise as well--had he _gasped?_--and she was edging towards the little glass rectangle as each knock grew more frenzied, more frantic, more forceful. For a moment the door seemed to rock on its hinges, the series of strong knocks jamming forcefully into her skull with each second, confusion jarred with panic and fear. Was it the Joker, coming to claim her at last--to finally kill her?

"Open up!"

A deep, forceful voice boomed at the other end, the pounding so fast and so strong the door began to almost bend with each blowing force, and she was working the latch of the window, cursing beneath her breath as she began to pull it upwards, her heart beating frantically with the knocking.

"Rachel," Bruce was crying on the other end, "Rachel, stay with me--_stay with me,_ what's happening, Rachel?! What's happening?!"

She had the window almost halfway up--it was old, stubborn, opening too slowly, and a scream caught itself halfway within her throat as a section of flimsy wood burst from the tiny door to give way to a bloodied fist. _Oh God_._ Oh my God._ She was wrenching the damned window up with all her strength, clutching the phone against her ear, swearing and cursing as she continued to push, the glass suddenly snapping upwards enough for her to reach her head through, then her shoulders, and then she was wriggling her way, almost half-way against the lonely outside, her shoulders digging into broken glass, biting her lip in pain as it cut into skin--

"Open the fucking door, we're not gonna hurt you! Just _open the goddamned door!_"

With a shriek, she was wriggling through the tiny window by her waist, her hips pressed against the outline, her palms digging into asphalt, pushing the weight of her body further so she could slide through. But she was too slow, too afraid, too panicked, and Bruce was screaming into her ear, screaming at her to stay with him, to tell him what was happening, and the door was breaking, she could hear the wood splintering away, could hear its dying yawn as the hinges began to break off, and whoever was on the other end would be grabbing at her ankles within minutes, _oh God,_ they were shouting with their heavy voices, dangerous, they were going to _kill her_--

With a cry she landed onto asphalt, pulling herself to her feet, just in time to hear the ringing shotgun blow that crippled the door to her room and gave way to a pair of dark faces on the other end. They could see her, free or not, they would be after her within minutes, their faces were contorted in determination and unmistakable primal thirst--

She was running. She was running to her car, running across the long expanse of asphalt, running until her feet were tired and aching, her breath heavy and laboured against the phone that never seemed to stop crying out in her ear to _hold on_ as she found the streak of black that her mind barely registered was hers and unlocked and pulled the door opened, slammed it shut, started the ignition with a frustrated cry at the barest sounds of frantic footsteps bounding so close to where she was sitting like a _helpless little mouse,_ _again, the mouse--_

The dark faces were looming, pressing towards her against her rear-view mirror. With a frantic cry she pressed down _hard_ against the gas and zoomed forward, bursting across the road like a blur, her mouth dry and every part of her screaming. Another shot pierced through her ears, but it was too far to reach her now--she was zooming past, her skin prickling with sweat, feeling viciously and incredibly intact and _alive. _The phone was dead against her lap; Bruce was gone on the other end. She wondered how he thought he could find her.

She wondered what the fuck was going _on._

As if to answer her, the radio was crackling; Rachel's fingers prickled with the urge to shut off the unsettling noise before the high-pitched cackle filled her car. Nearly swerving as her stomach hit rock-bottom, she kept her composure steady while the madman's crackling words, somehow broadcast over the radio, filled her suddenly tiny, vulnerable vehicle.

"Good eveeeening, people of _Goth-_am! I hope you've all been, ah...keeping in _touch_ with the news recently, I'm sure you've all been as _di_-li-_gent_ as Mister Reese here, all _tied up_ and eager to hear my...broadcast."

The voice paused for a moment, as if to allow the audience to register his words. Rachel's throat burned as a peal of the horrifically familiar laughter scorched the night air.

"_Good._ I really _do_ hope we've all been on the look-out for, uh...my lovely _accomplice,_ as well. _Rachel Dawes_, your...um..._for-_mer D.A.? Ya see, we've been...working together for quite some time now, and we agreed on...a little _deal,_"

she could feel the grin spreading across the sickly red lips, the tongue snaking over scars, as if to taste the blood beneath,

"If one of the good people of _Goth_-am doesn't play _my_ part for the night and bring me their _lovely..._little..._Ra_-chel. Then _I_ will simply have to blame her little no-show on the rest of you! Ya see, _Rachel_ here _knows_ who Batman is, she's just been keeping it a secret because she _loves_ to let the crimes toll up, loves to be everyone's little _pro-_tect-_or_, the shoulder we _cry_ on to clean Gotham up! You can blame her for all those deaths...and for the ones to come."

Her entire body prickled with raging heat; her eyes burned with unshed tears. She could feel her lip quivering, her heel digging into the gas pedal with the crushing force of wanting to dig her heel into rib, to break bone. The voice was taunting, twisted, sickeningly delighted in its own sound...enjoying the fact that she was out there, somewhere, squirming with each syllable. Each and every truthful little lie.

"If _I_ don't get _Ra_-chel right here where I can see her by, oh...let's say, an _hour,_ I will _blow_ up a hospital in downtown Gotham, because I know how you all like to see things _burn._"

The sound of a tongue smacking against lips, reptilian and thirsty. Bloodlust in each syllable; she couldn't quench her own urge to shut him up, to hurt him, to make him bleed.

"_Buuuut..._if she's here by the time specified, I won't harm a _single soul.._I really can't guarantee _her_ well-being, anyway. You have an hour to play my game. _Come out, come out, wherever you are!_"

She was blinking back tears as she dug into the gas pedal, her car whipping sharply past curbs and abandoned street lights, heading full-speed towards where she knew to be the news station. A dull vibration shot across her lap again; it was Bruce, yet she cursed and concentrated on the roads before her, refusing to allow him to put the lives of others at stake for her own.

Her mind suddenly seemed to blank as a thought hit her. What had he said before?

_...Until I can track you down and help you._

Her lip curled in disgust as she gauged the full meaning of his words.

_Sonar._

Bruce was _tracking her down _through her phone, tracking her like a criminal.

And so was the rest of Gotham.

As the realization registered within her mind, her eyes darted instinctively to the rear view mirror.

She only caught a glimpse of the police car before it rammed straight into her.


	12. Twelve: Martyr

AN: Yay! Finally finished this! Honestly, I've been so busy with school, but I know you all understand…I was just able to get the time yesterday and today (meaning 3 a.m.) to finish writing up this short little chapter and post it up. So I was kind of in a rush, ugh. Yes, it is short, and for that I apologize…BUT I'm sure you'll all be happy to know that chapters 13, 14, and 15 will ALL be Rachel/Joker, and nothing but or at least mostly, not sure yet… This is including an ahem very "sexual" chapter, half of which I will have to post on and give you all the link to, since this site has its limits. But just as a warning; things are getting much, much darker from here on out. I cannot stress this enough. So if you think this 'fic is already twisted, um…well, just keep reading. Heh. I'm pleased with the way the story is going overall and I hope you all are, too. But yes, after this hell week of midterms, I should be posting the next few chapters WITHIN THE TWO WEEKS AFTER THIS WEEK, I PROMISE YOU. Or most of it within the month, because now the plot is in full-gear and I can finally do what I wanted with this story so I'm excited and ready to write more. Yay!

I love all of you guys who have read this story. I cannot stress that ENOUGH! I will review reply promptly whenever I have the time to, I promise! Love you all and enjoy.

* * *

**Dark Humor**

**Twelve**

"_A trauma powerful enough to create an alternate personality leaves the victim in a world where normal rules of right and wrong no longer apply..."_

_-Batman Forever_

* * *

The impact sent a jolt through her body as she was thrust against her seatbelt, her fingers digging into the wheel as the entire car jerked and shuddered forward, her eyes squeezing shut for a fraction of a second before she pounded her foot frantically against the gas. Rachel could barely think, could barely _breathe_ as the police siren wailed throughout her ears, barely taking into account the destruction of the back of her vehicle or the red lights before her as she sailed forward. The honking of horns screamed through her body, flying shapes blurring before her as she flew past, yet every inch further was an inch away from the car that was frantically pursuing her. Adrenaline spiked her blood like liquor, impairing her judgment as she swayed and swerved across the cars before her, the almost abstract shapes crossing at the intersections going _too slow, too slow, they're going to catch me, they're going to lock me up like a criminal—_

More sirens at her side; fast as lightning, quicker even than the frantic, shallow breaths running through her body, than the tears that coursed across her corpse-white cheeks. Where had they come from? Was _all_ of Gotham pursuing her now, as if she were some sort of _freak,_ more menacing than the Joker himself? There were three cars, now; the car that had rammed her, trailing behind at breakneck speed, dangerously close to ramming into her bumper a second time—two at her side, their sirens screaming, speed-mangled voices crying out from either vehicle. She didn't _care_ to hear what they had to say; their accusations, their lies.

Her breath caught in her throat as she focused through blurred vision towards the street before her. Somehow, she had turned into a long stretch of alley, and she was going at least 80 miles per hour towards nothing but a wall of dilapidated brick.

She was going to hit a dead end.

They were going to capture her.

The car behind her was gaining speed, enough that the force of impact would ram straight through her already battered vehicle.

_Oh God, no._ _Oh God, no, please don't let it end like this._

If she kept going this fast, she would ram right into the wall within milliseconds. What would happen then, if her body smashed head-first into solid brick, mangled and battered beyond recognition? Panic shot through her mind, froze her heart into blank hysteria. Feet acted of their own accord as she slammed the breaks, the sirens closing in on her, the trio of pursuing cars led by her attacker. Her mind was empty, teeth biting through her lip to taste blood, eyes glazed forward as the car skidded, sputtered, _screamed_, the very front ramming into the wall with a _crunch_. The destruction would have been so _close_ to encompassing her, as the entire front of the car was swallowed up by the brick, devouring the metal up towards the steering wheel as it flew from her hands with a jolt and she found herself lying within the confines of her seatbelt, bulging metal sharp and glinting against her body. Glass shattered and flew into closed eyes, cutting away at bare skin and her unprotected face. Stray pieces of battered metal gashed her leg, her still fingers, leaving raw, bloody prints on her skin; her head had hit the seat with a forceful thud, and she could feel the egg-like bump bloom against her scalp. Spots danced before her vision as she pulled her seatbelt roughly aside, turning an aching neck to peer at the car that _should_ have slammed into her a fatal, final time.

The other two police cars had their doors flung opened. The aggressive car that had been chasing her seemed damaged beyond repair, its entire front battered with the strange sight of bullets that had somehow been inflicted in the short amount of time from her impact from the alley-to-wall. Smoke curled, gray and thick, from beneath the hood. Unknown officers were pointing their guns at a man of their own profession; the driver who had tried to kill her. He was doubled over, his face twisted with panic and a mixture of hatred as she pulled her suddenly dizzy frame completely from the wreckage, aware of the blood pooling from her split leg as the gash throbbed. She was vaguely aware of the cracked web that was once the windshield of the man's car—and the huge, black body that kneeled against it, glaring at the fallen officer with open hostility.

_Batman._

It was only a matter of time before he would see her. She was cornered, after all, and he would turn his attention upon her as soon as he was finished with her attacker. Her lips pursed as she saw the man's face, recognized him from court cases—_Rodriguez_—no _wonder_ he had attacked her, with his mother in the hospital that would be destroyed tonight if she lost track of the time.

The _time._

Her life was being _timed,_ and she was standing here in a daze, with Bruce about to whisk her away with each second's hesitation. People would die because of her reluctance. Because of Batman's goddamned moral _absolution_. Her gorge rose as she willed her shaken body forward. Heels ground against the asphalt, shaky legs working slowly across the ground, and—predictably—an officer's head rose from watching Batman and his companion force the attacker into one of their police cars. His eyes widened to saucers as he examined her bloodied frame, and his mouth hung open to form words. It was then that Rachel thrust herself forward, as fast her legs could carry her, willing all the strength possible into her left arm. Before the officer could shout an exclamation, she had struck her fist roughly against his jaw and kneed his groin, and he was on the ground, cursing and grabbing hold of himself as she broke into a blind run towards the station. Rachel barely had time to register the sound of a gun cocking, sight of the remaining policeman turning his gun on Batman's hulking shape. She heard the cape flutter as she ducked into a series of alleys, running as fast as her muscles willed, as fast as time could be merciful.

Apparently, mercy wasn't on her side.

Already the gunshots from the alley had come to a halt with a man's scream, and the whispers of a cape were coming nearer, closer. She had run blindly, already a good few blocks away, pushing past stray faces and wandering couples, gasping for breath as raw pain shot through her crippled, hobbling leg. She wasn't getting far, yet it would only take a few more minutes—fifteen, she just needed _fifteen minutes,_ yet she knew he would find her so much faster, would overpower her—

_No, I can't let that happen…I can't let him take me away! I can't let those people _die!

It was the fierce, nearly sadistic determination that shot her through with renewed strength as she pumped the adrenaline in her limbs and willed herself forward. Blood grew hot and sticky against her wound, her nerves screaming with pain, gone mute by the frantic cries in her mind to _run, run faster, as fast as you can manage, until you implode from the pain—_

"Rachel! RACHEL!"

_No._

Teeth grit; she was throwing herself across crosswalks without daring to glance over her shoulder, the blaring horns and angry screams as cars skidded and shuddered mere centimeters from her flying face, the wind whipping wildly in her hair, stinging her eyes with tears, her heart sinking as awe-filled shouts lit the clusters of people behind her like flames, coming nearer and nearer on a rampant, hungry trail. She turned into an alley, limping with her left leg and running with her right, splashing ankle-deep puddles and carelessly knocking over garbage cans, taking the shortcut from Avenue X to Bay Street. Her limbs were aching, her heart and head pounding, and she _knew_ before she felt it that she was losing precious energy, that she would collapse sooner than arrive at her destination, sooner even than Batman would manage to find her.

But then, as she dug her nails into the brick wall and turned the corner towards the next alley, she realized her assumptions were dreadfully out of order.

"Rachel, _stop! Let me help you!_"

"_No!"_

The rasping voice bore down upon her even as she continued to hobble and limp forward through the deserted alley, panicked tears streaming down her face, sheer desperation edging her forward and forward until her heart swelled in her breast and she fought back breathless, sobbing coughs.

A flutter of a cape, and she was screaming and protesting as rough arms gripped her shoulders, trying to smother her. A hand clamped down upon her mouth and she was biting fingers, her teeth of no use against the armored glove, and she wondered for a lunatic second just how strong the teeth of rabid dogs were to penetrate the steel-like fabric, the iron grip. He was hoisting her up but _no_ she couldn't let him, couldn't let him _take her back,_ not when _people were going to die_ so soon because of _her,_ and she was kicking and screaming and scratching and for some miraculous instant her neatly manicured fingernails had caught into the patch of bare skin, torn at chin and lips until they were wet with blood, and he gave a strangled cry as another flying finger dug into an unprotected eye—

She was on the floor, writhing, pulling herself to her feet, and she was running and wild-eyed again, so close to the station now, only a good mile away. The gray building seemed so out of reach with _Batman_ behind her, sweat rolling down her neck and freezing in her cold panic, and she only had a few seconds of running before he would be on top of her again, pulling her away with force this time, possibly even going as far as to knock her out.

And so it was with desperation that she continued to run, and when the police siren screamed across the corner her heart sank and alighted fiercely at the same time—she recognized the hardened face from _before,_ from Harvey's funeral, recognized the gleam within the glazed eyes, and that was why she ran towards that car and why it stopped obligingly before her and opened its passenger doors. And quickly, _quickly,_ without another word to him, she flung herself desperately into its confines, and the officer floored it as the Batman recovered to all but fling himself towards them; and yet they were now ten feet away at breakneck speed, disappearing like a pinprick of light against the pitch-black horizon.

oOo

"Good choice."

The only two words that came from his mouth; monotonous, almost _robotic._ She wondered if they were all like that, _his_ men, hollow as vessels, defunct when off duty like discarded hand-puppets. A part of her didn't really want to know as they pulled into a stop before the door of the news station, settling against endless other cars with blaring sirens. At first she thought they would see her, be upon her within seconds, pulling her _away_ from this place, _away _from the madman within—yet they were _all_ like the man next to her, all of them hollow-eyed, masquerading beneath police hats and uniforms. Something within her clenched tightly as the locks clicked, the door opened against her hard fist, and she was out in the suddenly stale, dead air. No one could save her now, everyone so far out of reach—and here she was, in the very lair of the beast, waiting to be devoured whole.

For an instant, she envisioned herself turning on her heel and running in the opposite direction, panicked and sobbing and screaming for help until she was thrown into strong arms, frisked back away into Wayne Manor.

Then her mind snapped back into reality, and she began to ascend the station's steps.

Rachel wished she had remembered a prayer from her childhood, anything to whisper beneath her breath, _anything_ to calm her frayed nerves as wobbling knees dug into step after step, as her fingers pressed against deathly cold glass and chills spread along her spine. The best she could do was retreat into the gaping emptiness inside of her for what she knew would only be inevitable—lying on a slab like a dead animal, mutilated beyond recognition. Maybe that would be the most _peaceful_ way to go, how she envisioned it. Or maybe she wasn't going to _go_ at all.

Maybe he just wanted to _talk_ to her.

A burst of hysteria shot through her mind and threatened to erupt from her mouth; whether a laugh or a scream, she didn't know. Lips pursed as the door opened beneath her numbed fingers, and when she pulled herself through the threshold, her heart began to die into numbness. It would all end, soon. Soon she could finally rest; soon the bastard's games would be over, and she would be done with her role in his scheming.

_And Harvey's death would have been for nothing—you would have never truly avenged him._

The voice within her mind was rabid and biting as she walked forward across the quiet ground, her heels making too much noise, alerting anything nearby of her presence.

_But why make a quiet entrance when this entrance will most likely be your last? Why not be theatric, let the world know you before you cease to exist?_

She would have sobbed at the thought if there were any tears remaining inside of her, if there was anything now but the sudden numbness that had possessed her and made everything within her a blank, empty slate. Rachel wasn't quite sure where to go, though she knew going anywhere within this building would be pointless. He would find her with ease, and he would do what he wished with her, as long as the innocents in the hospital were _safe._ Irony bubbled at the back of her throat at her predicament, bordering bleak amusement.

_Once again I'm the martyr, the bait, the contender in the game…_

She didn't see the pool of blood beneath her heel until she nearly slipped in it.

Regaining her balance with a cry, she covered her mouth with her hands and stared down at the former employees of the news station, greeting her with _smiles._ Once animated faces on her television set, in better, _saner_ days, were grinning blankly up at her, their faces and throats slashed open into identical, leering grins, their eyes wide and staring like reddened dolls, chalk-white skin drowning in the blood which framed their almost meticulously laid-out bodies. They were stacked in a neat little row like dominoes, like _artwork,_ the sickening stench of death and decay nearly making her retch. It was then that she saw the smeared blood, lining their torsos in an identical streak—it formed a _line, _an _arrow_ made of blood drawn crudely upon their bodies, pointing westward against the carnage. Leading her towards the source of the massacre.

And these bodies were here _all because of her. _Just to make her a _sign._

These people were dead _because of her._

_Just like Harvey._

The cry came from nowhere, bursting from her lips in a grating, desperate sob. White heels were stained red as she slid backward against the wall, biting back a long, piercing wail. She was being weighed down, her body pooling against the floor, knees soaking blood, face cradled in shaking hands, eyes staring listlessly through cracked fingers at the endless pool of red that smiled, sneered, _leered_ up at her in cruel mockery.

_Ten little corpses, lined up in a queue, rotting, rotting, all because of you._

In her mind, she could hear them laughing, each torn throat emitting a high-pitched, screaming cackle. Each one mocking, each one taunting. Beckoning. _You'll be one of us soon. You'll be lying on the ground, smiling, all your pain taken away, and it's all your fault we're like this, it's all your fault…_

As she gazed out at the display of corpses, pure terror and _weakness_ overpowered her for the first time that night. And for the first time in her life, she was completely _alone._

Rachel's head shook in her hands as she burst into panicked laughter.


	13. Thirteen: Mirror

Author's Notes: Yay! I'm finally done with this chapter! :) I'm sorry I haven't replied to all the reviews yet...I ACTUALLY think I might be reverting to putting replies up all at once for each chapter in the Author's Notes, since it's much easier and less time consuming for me. I've been hella busy and I will be even busier this week so bare with me on the updates. But hooray for action and plot moving nicely :) Let's see...I'm still pondering whether I should have sex in this story or not. I can get away with not putting any, but at the same time it could also be integral to the story if I portray it a certain way. That's why I think I'd like the opinions of readers on this, because I'm not really sure if I should or if I shouldn't. Let me know in your review please because I am seriously stumped and don't know if it would ruin the story for some or if it's seen as a necessity for others...I am split 50/50 and it sucks. But anyways...enjoy...and only a few more chapters to go. Ah! :(

Love, xxnadsxx

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**Dark Humor**

**Thirteen**

"_A trauma powerful enough to create an alternate personality leaves the victim in a world where normal rules of right and wrong no longer apply..."_

_-Batman Forever_

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The sound of crackling static was the first she heard. Her eyes blurred, focused beyond the spots of light behind her vision. She saw a flash of purple, moving to and fro before her, and as her brows knitted and she gave a tiny moan at the throbbing pain in her forehead, she realized she was crumpled on the floor in an unknown room, lying right behind the pacing frame of the Joker. Her mind reacted at that—hostility mingled with sheer, violent panic, as if an alarm had set off within her head and her brain had snapped into survival mode. She was fighting to scrabble to her feet, uncaring if he turned at the noise, yet her leg gave way to a sharp onslaught of pain and she cried out uselessly and slumped back down against the ground. Rachel cursed beneath her breath at the sight of her twisted calf, the dried blood threatening to burst open in a fresh deluge with any wrong move.

The static intensified as she willed herself to actually _focus_ on the scene before her, and she couldn't keep the curiosity from rising unbidden in her mind. The Joker's back was turned towards her, the greasy head inclined towards rows upon rows of monitors, stacked and piled one atop the other, broadcasting scene upon scene of the same flickering pictures—the News Station, flanked by what had just been discovered by the frantic news reporter to be corrupt policemen, the trail of blood from doorway beyond, the bodies found piled in the front of policemen who had foolishly struggled to join those guarding the edifice from the penetration of actual law enforcers…

Gotham appeared in frenzy. And the madman before her was the reason for _all_ of it. Her fingers clenched into a fist, nails digging into skin, savoring the pain that set her nerves alight. _Everything_ was because of him. The realization caused her to squeeze hard on her palm, increasing the pressure until she cut into skin and drew blood. She would rake her nails across his skin, savor the pain she would draw…know it would never be enough to balance the pain they had all suffered for so long, but it would be enough, to watch him writhe, to hear him scream…

a sigh, the high-pitched voice forming almost wistful words,

"Beautiful…all the panic. The mayhem. _Beautiful._"

Arms raised upwards as if to embrace the monitors before him. Rachel dug her blood-stained nails into the solid ground, struggling to pull herself forward, closer to the occupied form in front of her. Just as quickly as he had raised his arms, however, the figure lowered them and whipped around, slowly enough for Rachel to regain her composure and return his penetrating stare with an acidic glare. As he gazed upon her, his scarred mouth twitched in response to her opened hostility; then, his red lips tore open in a loud, amused peal of laughter, and his shoe connected with her head. Rachel gave a cry of pain as she fell backwards a good foot away from the space she had advanced between them, her fingers clinging to her throbbing head, cursing openly.

"Raaa-_chel,_ Raaa-_chel,_ Raaa-_chel…_what _ever_ are we to _do_ with you, dear?!"

He was making "tsk-tsk" noises with his tongue, wagging his finger at her like a naughty child. The Joker was advancing towards her, torturously slow, his kohl-darkened eyes plastered upon her as if hungrily devouring every expression upon her face. Any trace of _human_ left in his features had been stripped away, leaving a bestial, growling form above her, his tongue flicking across his lips, his gaze slitted and savage and brutally violent and hungry. She wondered if he was a cannibal, the way he was _staring_ at her. A grim voice laughed in the back of her head upon the realization that such a thingwas probably very feasible. She kept her head cradled carefully in her palms, doing her best to glare with opened hostility at him through the corner of her eye, her lip trembling as she spoke,

"You could leave me and this city the hell _alone!_"

Of course, he chuckled at this, not even bothering to reply. Instead he stopped barely a few inches before her splayed form, craning his head so that he was staring down upon her, _analyzing her,_ like a man before he stomps upon a particularly interesting-looking insect.

"You look _wonderful_. The color 'bruised and bloody' really suits you, you know," he arched a painted brow, the vapid eyes taunting her, daring her, "I think all the damage fits, suits _every_ little cut and scar, you know, up in _here_." He motioned with his fingers towards the side of his head, a lazy, half-circle, scarred lips slowly mouthing the sound: _"cu-ckoo,cu-ckoo…"_

She lunged at him. He laughed as she struggled to run, instead wobbling pathetically like a _cripple,_ tears raking her raw cheeks as she flung her fist fruitlessly at his legs. He replied with a flick of his wrist, a glint of silver precluding the searing pain and flash of red that bloomed across her knuckles. The cry tore from her lips as his knife tore into her shoulder, biting at the skin and the fabric beneath, and she was on her knees, face twisted in a snarl, fingers gripping the freely bleeding cut and the torn strap of shirt above the tattered flesh.

The whooping laughter echoed through her ears, falling hollowly against her adrenaline-numbed brain. She was breathing heavily, the throbbing pain in her leg mingling with the fire along her freshly opened wounds and the constant aching hemorrhage of her heart. Scrabbling to pull herself back up to her knees, Rachel gazed up at him defiantly, her hair pooling free of its bun to fall in tangles and wild knots across her face, only emphasizing the twisted, murderous loathing seething beneath her eyes. She didn't realize the deathly ferocity of her own gaze mirrored his at that exact moment; intentions that went beyond the brink of physical suffering, transcending into something utterly _inhuman._

_Maybe I'm the cannibal._

The thought struck her as she kept her gaze steady, her heart pounding with the prospect of tearing this man apart, limb from limb, of tasting every inch of his _pain,_ of _reveling_ in it. Somehow, the idea wasn't so horrifying anymore. It wasn't so taboo, so inconceivable. She could see him stacked upon the row of bodies in the corridor, a pool of blood trailing from gashed, smiling lips; tied to a chair just as Harvey had been, his body decaying in sparks and flame. The twisting in her belly was insatiable, and for the first time since Harvey had died she recognized that strange churning sensation as a primal sort of _hunger._

"What's the _matter,_ _Miz Dawes?_"

The words came in a long, near-drunken drawl from the tip of yellowing teeth. He was gazing at her from beneath his mop of greasy hair.

"Cat got your tongue-_guh?"_

A snarl rose unexpectedly from her pursed lips, surprising even herself as it increased in volume and intensity. She was a _dog,_ laid out on all fours, with her snarling face and acidic bloodlust tainting her widened eyes. All she wanted, all she _needed,_ was to shut this man _up,_ to make him _stop,_ to make him _suffer._

"I don't spare my words for petty criminals who kill everything in sight."

Her voice was almost unrecognizable. It no longer seemed to shake, yet held a savageness almost effortlessly beneath each syllable, rounded to a deadly lowness. Her words were sharp enough to cut; to draw sweet, pleasurable blood.

_His_.

_Only_ his.

Brows raised along the Joker's blackened eyes, making the outline of his orbs appear almost comically huge, as if his entire face had widened in mock bewilderment,

"But…but…_you're_ the _cri_-mi_-nal_ here, _Ra_-chel! _You're_ the reason that Harvey _died!_ Don't try and sound like Bat-boy, now. We're _different _than him, haven't you _realized?! _You're _almost_ as much to blame as _him, anyway, _ because you were so pathetically _weak,_ unable to keep yourself from trusting that…_Rodriguez?—_and getting yourself into that mess in the _first_ place. And then, to be stupid enough to not even get out of your _restraints_…" a nasty leer formed along red lips, and she thought it resembled an opened wound, "Well, we both _know_ why you came here. We _know_ where your little trail of _just_-ice comes to end. When you're living by your _own_ rules, the rule of _cha_-os is still the same: end it by ending _yourself._ By…your final…_disappearing. Act."_

The words would have driven ice through her lungs, paired with the very real carnal thirst in the predator clown's eyes. Yet now they seemed to fall empty and numb, and she bit back a bitter, hollow laugh. She was peering at him through fallen locks of hair, her nails digging into the floor beneath, her body tensed to spring. _Like a dog. Like an animal, Rachel. You're an animal._

"The only way…that I'm going to disappear, Joker, is if I take you _with_ me."

Black eyes seem to bleed kohl, the irises disappearing completely into the makeup with their widening. An ecstatic squeal burst from cracked lips as the Joker jumped once, twice, his fists raised to his chin like an excited little schoolgirl,

"_Oh,_ what a _glorious_ day! When Miz _D.A._ decides to take _just_-ice in her own little hands! Oh, and I'm so _proud,_ so proud to be a part of this…this…_awakening._ Too bad I'll have to _kill_ _you_ before you finish your little game!"

With a flourish, he pranced towards her, with the near-grace of a dancer, his blade flicking expertly between his fingertips. Rachel was pulling herself to the side, cursing at her throbbing leg, _too slow, too slow,_ and he was cackling viciously as his knife bore down upon her a second time, this time seeking throat, this time barely missing with a _whish_ against the air as it cut against her collar instead because she had managed to move a fraction of a millimeter away, the pain searing and hot and trickling along her skin, and she was crying out in agitation and swiping at his ankles with her bare hands and he responded with another delighted cry as his knife greeted one set of knuckles, re-opened the bloodflow on the other, and she was clinging to her hands and crying out and biting her lip and screaming in utter _frustration_ rather than pain, because pain didn't _matter_, the only thing that mattered was that he _wasn't in pain,_ and she could and would _die_ here at the hands of Harvey's murderer and the murderer of her fucking _sanity…_

"Where's Batman now?!"

His voice was a shriek, high-pitched and perversely aroused, and suddenly he froze above her like a frigid statue, and she was taking in heaving, shuddering breaths as she gathered her composure from a hollow slash to her side. With a moment's pause he was licking the blade clean of her blood, his eyes half-opened, irises boring towards the back of his skull, a low guttural groan of pleasure filling the air as his tongue caressed the knife's sharp edge and she hoped to _God_ he would cut the damned thing off so she could relish his screams. Yet he simply continued to speak, the knife still half-way in his mouth, caressed languorously by his careful tongue,

"Thing is, _honey,_ if you were Harvey…you'd be a bit. More. Indis_posable._ A bit more _use_ful to the Bat. But since you're not, well…you can _be_ a lost cause—you can _be_ the little sacrificial lamb. Don't you _realize_ that? Batsy led to Harvey's death by his _choices_, and _you're_ the one suffering for it—right. _Now._"

In a flash he was pouncing again—she was prepared for it this time, lunging with her torso sharply to the side, and his upper half crashed towards the ground, his knife flying wildly. It connected with air and cut away locks of her hair, landing to cut a narrow gash along her scalp. She cried out and instinctively flung her hand out to shield her head, and his knife was biting into her fingers, her legs scrabbling for control yet finding none as the pulsing pain in her calf wound intensified with the beating of her frantic heart. Suddenly, she found her fist shooting forward to connect with the Joker's jaw as he brought his head towards her, his smiling upturned-face reduced to an "O" as her bloody hand punched into rows of yellowing teeth and chalk white skin. She watched with almost-perverse satisfaction as his head flung backwards and blood splattered his chin and throat, yet as he pulled his head back forward it was a peal of laughter rather than pain which burst forward from the depths of his being. She was pushing herself away as he laughed, his deep throaty cackles intensifying into whooping and wheezing amusement, her entire body stinging from the fresh wounds and an all-too human fatigue.

Her mind buckled with panic as he wiped the blood away and admired its color against pale fingers for a split second before pulling himself to his feet, his lips rippling in a low, throaty growl. She wondered how much she could go on hurting him _once_ when he could swipe at her ten, twenty times inbetween—who would die first, then? How did she stand a _remote_ chance against this madman, when he didn't mind feeling pain, when his cries of discomfort were replaced by shrieking laughter? And even now he was advancing upon her, ignoring the wet red blood dribbling down the side of his chin as if his smile slanted straight down across his body, a momentary red grimace. He was a wraith with his wide, eager eyes, his pale and battered form that still ached to draw blood.

He raised his knife and her entire body tensed as she pushed herself as far backwards as she possibly could in her battered state. She was sliding across the hall behind her, aching palms pressing against slick ground, heart pounding in her ears, eyes wide and prickling with tears of sheer hysteria, her mind still numb and inactive save for the responses of her body, her stupid foolish weakling little _body_ that refused to push her _faster, faster, faster,_ refused to register the fact that he was raising his knife again, murderous lust and thirst in his gaze, and he was bringing it down faster than she could pull herself, faster than the breaths that escaped her lips for perhaps the last time—

Instead, the Joker's foot landed _hard_ against her ribs in an almost crushing blow. The breath knocked from her body in a soundless cry of pain as she fell backwards flat against the floor, her head snapping roughly back against the ground, the goose egg that had already formed aching with fresh pain. She felt wetness in her hair, the unmistakable stickiness of blood, and spots of light danced before her for a moment before her breathing became strained yet normal enough to keep her alive and she stared up at him in sheer defiance. He was waiting for it, _waiting_ for that violent gaze of his to be returned, for a smug sneer rippled across the still white plains of his face as he buried the sole of a dirtied shoe roughly up against her aching torso, pinning her down and making her whimper,

"_Why_ are you a D.A., my pretty little_ Raaa-_chel? Because you have a _sick, _twisted little _get-yourself-off _ fetish for bringing people in. For making yourself _better_, somehow. _Worth_ something."

He nodded vigorously as he spoke, his foot continuing to move back and forth along her undoubtedly bruised ribs, sparks of pain making her nerves _ache._ Then he pointed to his chest, cocking his blood-stained face with an air of know-it-all self-righteousness,

"I _know_ people like you, and I des-_pise_ them. Why, before…"

He motioned to his scars, then, the gesture half-hearted and quick, as if an afterthought,

"Before I _found_ myself, I was even _crazier_, like _you, _always with my stupid little values, my orderly little…_life._ Well, _that_ didn't get _me_ anywhere, and look where it led _you,_"

With his knife, he pointed down towards her prone frame, a mocking leer making the scar-extended smile stretch from ear-to-ear,

"About to be _killed_ by…by a _freak clown!_ Isn't it _ironic,_ how you put all the mob away and a clown comes along with the power to _kill_ you? Isn't it…_exciting,_ don't you just want to make me _buh_-leed?"

Rachel was scrabbling beneath his hold upon her, her struggling causing him to giggle and push down even harder against her ribs. She gasped, tears of pain prickling behind her eyes, staring wildly for a way out of her predicament, knowing the Joker's intent to kill her wasn't just an empty threat any longer. She had played his game, had served as his pawn, and the game would have a very macabre final act in store if she didn't act _now._ And since she was practically breathless, squirming, utterly _powerless_ to stop him if he shot forward to stab at her jugular or _made her smile_ that very moment, she thought of the second best thing she could do,

"Yes…yes, I want to _kill_ you, Joker," she practically rasped as the pain continued to bloom and wrap around her torso, her fingers digging into either side of the ground below her, "but…I'm better than that. I'm better than _you. _You know if you kill me instead, right now, that the people of Gotham will be after you…_Batman _will get your head on a fucking _platter._"

The Joker's head cocked to one side, lolling lazily against his shoulder. Blackened eyes rolled with sarcasm, almost like a child's, and he mock-sighed and held his knife out. Rachel watched its sheen carefully, felt the pressure on her ribs loosen slightly as he spoke,

"no one _cares._ Hu-_man-_ity is a cess-_pool,_ people looking out to keep themselves from _rotting._ But what's the fun in hiding what's underneath the skin in the _first_ place? What's the fun in being the sane one, when we all _die_? If I were you…I'd rather be unres_trained._ Maybe _then_, you'll get your sense of _worth! _When the Bat. Puts you on the slab _again…you won't have any-_oneto blame but _your_self. And you're _so scared_ of what's lying in that _pretty little _air_head_ of yours, what _I_ can see right now, _smiling_ at me through all your de-_ni_-al…"

Slowly, slowly, his hold on her ribs seemed to lessen and lessen. She shut her eyes and gasped in a gulp of sweet air, her entire body aching with the effort, yet not unpleasantly. She was _alive._ She was still alive, if only for a second longer. A part of her didn't care if she died, a part of her _thirsted_ for it, but that same primal aching in her mind to _kill_ held the overwhelming urge to _live,_ to _breathe,_ and it _scared _her that it was possessing her, that nothing else seemed to matter but living and killing and vengeance.

And it _terrified_ her that she wasn't nearly as afraid of it as she should have been.

"_Yes._"

The word came from her lips like a curse. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her breathing quickened and frantic, the full realization coursing through her body in renewed adrenaline and strength. Her wounds were pounding with her heartbeat and the blackness in her eyes was a bleeding, violent red. She _felt,_ rather than _saw,_ the Joker's eyes narrowing, his foot twitching as it edged away from her ribs, his head cocking in the other direction, utter curious bewilderment in his voice.

"_What?_"

"_Yes…_yes, I want to _kill_ you right now," A grunt from the Joker, as if sincerely not expecting her confession, and she continued frantically, "I don't just want to kill you. I want to make it a slow death…I want to _torture_ you, I want to hear you _scream._ I want to savor every little drop of blood that comes from that pathetic smiling _face_ of yours, every little laugh that you disguise to hide your pain, knowing that you're _suffering_ how I've suffered, how all of Gotham has suffered under you. I want you to beg for mercy. I want to take away your _control_ and make you _die_ knowing you've never had it in the first place."

A violent twitch against her body accompanied her last sentence. She opened her eyes quickly to see the Joker's face, savoring the expression; what she guessed to be vicious amusement at first at her near-sadistic confession, then a twisting of his lips, a near-rage that crossed his face in the furrowing of his brows and the narrowing of his eyes at her threat of taking away what he valued the most—his _control._ And then a low, empty chuckle rose from his lips, as if to fill the biting silence between them, as if to erase her words altogether from spoken memory. It grew and grew in pitch until it was shrieking, whooping laughter, near-hysterical, near-desperate, and she could see straight through it, could see how she had managed to unnerve him and how he sought to subdue her temporary seizure of power.

_But that won't happen. Not tonight._

Suddenly, a silver glint flashed across her vision, almost out of thin air. She gasped and reacted just in time to catch the blade in a clenched fist right before it would tear at her cheek, and the Joker was growling like a rabid animal, his eyes flashing with bloodlust, his knife digging into the skin of her mangled fingers as she pushed the blade away with all her strength, pushed as he pushed forward, knowing if she faltered he would cut right through her, snip and snap at skin and bone until there was nothing left. She was weakening quickly, her fingers trembling and raw with overwhelming pain as the knife sank within her skin, dangerously close to the bone, and tears fell freely down her cheeks as she bit back a whimper from the _hurt_ that ached through her and for one insane moment she imagined him cutting straight through her fingers and watching them fall useless to the ground, but _no_ he wouldn't do that she wouldn't let him, she had to get him _off_ and _away_ from her, had to get him to stop—

With a cry, Rachel lurched forward and used her good foot to kick straight upwards between the Joker's legs.

He howled in pain at the unexpected move, doubling over momentarily, and that was all she needed. She twisted the knife roughly from his hands; it cut further into her fingers, nearly mangling them with thick blood. Beyond the pain, beyond the throbbing and the aching and her screaming nerves, she felt _ecstasy_ twist through her heart and soul and veins as she dove the knife straight forward into his right knee. The Joker gave a savage snarl of utter frustration, just as quickly becoming a giggle as he fell backwards onto the ground, and she was on top of him, straddling him, her knife to _his_ cheek, her face hovering over his own. He didn't move an inch beneath her; instead his eyes were fixated upon her own, his breathing ragged and quick and almost disgustingly _excited_, the smell of his rancid breath filling her nostrils and making her gorge rise.

The near-perverse glee swept through her again at their predicament; she allowed a low, scathing chuckle to burst from her lips. Something sparked in his eyes at that, his lips twitched in a semi-grin, and she knew he heard the recognition in that laugh, hated him even _more_ for it.

"I _hate_ you," she hissed, leaning forward so that _her_ knife now pressed against his already-scarred cheek, as if to re-open old wounds, "I _hate _you _and_ this goddamned city that you've destroyed. I hate its entire people, I hate the Batman, I hate _everyone_ who's been powerless to stop you."

A gleeful laugh; his eyes suddenly shone with unrestrained excitement, bordering perversion in the snaking of tongue over lips.

She could see the blood settling between each individual, yellow tooth as his scarred lips pulled back in that mockingly hard laugh, could practically feel the spray of stray red droplets against her seething face. He was laughing in the face of an imminent death, laughing in the way only the soulless and vapid would laugh; those who had nothing to die for, nothing to leave in their own lives but life itself.

It almost frightened her, how much she suddenly saw herself in those black-rimmed eyes, even with their glazed tears of madness, even amidst the extreme mirth that filled the Joker's eyes with a haunting viciousness. They both were ready to die at any time, and she held the knife in her hand that could very well do the deed at any moment.

Then why were her hands shaking so _fucking much?_ Why did they have to shake whenever she held a weapon, even _now,_ now when the man beneath her could flip her over as easily as a feather and crush her? Now, when he undoubtedly had more knives lying in accessible wait, knives which he could very easily pull from nothingness to impale her with?

_God dammit Rachel, just stab him like you want, like you said were going to. Cut him. _Kill_ him. Do what he did to Bruce. To Harvey. Do what he did to _you_!_

Her lips quivered at the thought as she stared down at the hard, clown-like face, at the rabid humor in that stark white stare. She would be exactly like _him,_ using this knife to sever his life away, never able to wash the blood from her hands.

Why was she _hesitating? _Why, when moments ago she had been so ready to _destroy_ him completely?

"_Shit,_" She suddenly sobbed in frustration, clenching the knife so tight in her white-knuckled hand it stung against her wounded fingers.

It was then, in her hesitation that strong hands thrust upward from beneath her and wrapped around her neck. Rachel cried out against the vice-like grip around her throat, each finger pushing with bruising force on her tender skin, weighing down at veins and arteries. She felt tears prick at her eyes as she struggled against him, his hands gripping harder and harder around her neck yet his body still beneath her, each moment making it harder and harder to breathe. He was _choking_ her because she had been so stupid to think twice about killing him, and now she was writhing in his grip as if she were the one beneath him, staring into the eyes that still swam in that vicious black mirth, laughing and mocking at her expense—

Rachel gave a desperate cry against the crushing force of his hands around her throat before slashing the knife across the Joker's chest. With a whooping cry of pain that immediately twisted into pleasured cackles, his hands flew from her throat and she took in long, frantic gasps of air, watching the red blood smear against his green vest, making a pool across the fabric. Her stomach churned in bestial satisfaction at his pain, , and she avoided his penetrating stare as she gave a grunt and found herself tearing away at his shirt, longing to see the blood as it streamed from his skin, to see that she had _hurt_ the bastard in some way, had damaged him just as he had damaged her.

"Ohhh, oh _yes!_" The Joker was hissing beneath her, his breath sharp as she used his knife to rip away at the fabric across his torso until she made out the sallow-pale skin beneath, "That's right—_hurt_ me, make me _bleed! _I didn't know you had it _in_ you, Rachel! So _violent, so much like me—_"

"Shut up!" She cried, and her hands moved automatically, the blade slashing across the exposed skin a second time to shallowly cut across the blood-splattered skin between his nipples.

The Joker gave a cry again, dissolving into even more hysterical laughter, his breath heavy and rancid as the striking redness of his blood trickled and matted against paper-white skin. He was lean and muscled, yet seemed so gaunt beneath her at that moment, ribs poking beneath flesh layered with countless scars, some white and faded, others infected in purple, badly-sewn gashes against his skin. A carnal pleasure bubbled within her to know that some of those scars would be of her own doing, her own vengeance, one of the largest the one at his side, wrought by her own bullet. His knife was caked in his own blood, and though he laughed excitedly as he received each wound she had given him, she found herself growing more satisfied and thirsty with each blow.

She was thirsty to see him in pain; to see him scream. To see the man who had triggered Harvey's murder in the first place to fall.

"I'm…nothing like you," she hissed as she pulled herself close towards the Joker's face, the smell of his sour breath mingled with the saltiness of sweat and blood.

The madman's eyes examined her own with pure skepticism, brows raised to disappear beneath green-tinted hair matted against a makeup-caked forehead,

"_No?_ Then _why_ are you _tor-_turing me right this _inst-_ant? Please, dear, I'm right after _you_ in the asylum's most wanted list—"

"_No,"_ Rachel interrupted angrily, her voice twisted with growing rage at his words. She angled the knife almost expertly in her ire, pressing it against one of the infected purple scars against his torso her teeth grit, "I'm torturing you because you'd do the same to me if you were in this position. Because…because if it wasn't for you, Harvey would still be _alive._ Because…"

She was blinking back tears; tears of anger, of collective rage. He had stolen so many things from her; Harvey, her position as D.A., her relationship with Bruce, her _sanity…_how else could she _ever_ show him the extent of her loss by doing anything but what she was doing now? The smell of him beneath her, of unwashed skin and grime, of blood and sweat and decay, only added to the disgust she felt for him now, the heat of her rage almost passionate as it twisted within her stomach. Carnal, primal heat, the fierce joy that lit in her heart when she watched the blood rise from his skin, wanted to spill it endlessly, to make his face contort in pain…

"Because _I_ am going to be the one to kill you tonight," She hissed, her voice so low she found herself leaning dangerously close to his face as she said it, running the knife along the tip of the infected scar, "I want you to feel every _ounce_ of pain that I felt when you set Harvey up to die and took everything I ever loved along with it—"

Her mouth was crushed hard against biting teeth and wrestling tongue, a hand clamping to the back of her hair and pulling her down against scarred, rough lips. She was crying out against the force of him against her, her hands pushing against the ground in an attempt to pull herself away, yet he kept her there with his teeth clamped against her lower lip, biting down so hard that white hot pain shot through her body, the blood between his teeth flowing down into her mouth and the taste of bitter iron and garlic and hot breath flooding her senses as she struggled to pull away, to pull away from the pain of her searing hot, bloodied lip, from his lapping tongue that greedily devoured the pooling blood and stung her. And then she remembered she had a knife, and she slashed it blindly across skin, again and again, making shallow cuts across a pearly white stomach, and his laughter masking the pain of the knife's biting touch across his flesh echoed throughout her ears as he freed her and she nearly fell backwards across him, clutching onto her bleeding lip with her free hand. The blood was soaking her fingertips, blood which she found herself licking away to try and staunch. She looked down to find he was grinning up at her, his arms behind his head, defiantly licking away _her_ blood across his scarred mouth, red against red, his eyes half-closed and rolled to the back of his head as he tasted her, a perverse groan shuddering throughout his body as if her blood were the most delicious thing he had ever experienced.

She touched her nearly split-lip and felt his arousal building beneath her with a wave of disgust. Her attempted "torture" of him was _arousing_ him; it wasn't giving him any _pain,_ at least not pain that he willingly recognized. She was _exciting_ him by hurting him, by making him bleed, and as he groaned and licked away the remainders of her spilled blood from his mouth, half-closed black-rimmed eyes in a state of mock ecstasy, his hips pressed up against her own in carnal thirst. She realized just how hopeless her situation was, and as if in opposition to logic, the anger merely intensified within her at her knowing helplessness.

"You're so _beau-_ti-_ful_ when you're _bleeding_ and _cra_-zy, _Ra_-chel," He purred as his freely bleeding wounds stained his white stomach red, snapping closed eyes opened to watch her, a smirk on scarred lips, "Ya _know,_I _used_ that knife myself in many similar ways…though I have to admit I wasn't as, ah, _blood-thirsty_ as you. But really, the way you _hold_ it, it's almost you like you're a _na-_tu-_ral…_tell me, how many times have you _fantasized_ about using it, about _killing_ criminals, about using it on little old _Har-_veeyyyy when he was being _dis_-o_-bedient—"_

"Shut _UP_!"

Rachel shot the knife forward towards the Joker's chest again, the sudden anger overwhelming her. She gasped as the knife stopped short in the air; the Joker was gripping it with astonishing strength in his fist, much like she had done earlier, a sickeningly smug sneer on his lips as he watched her suddenly horrified expression, savored it.

"Let the games begin."

With another twisted grin, he lunged at her.


	14. Fourteen: Shattered

Author's Notes:

Holy shit. I'M ALIVE. I'm so, so sorry for the lack of updates. I JUST had the time to update this 'fic and I had written out this chapter 3-4 weeks prior, but stupidly it is only in my laptop, and my laptop ended up breaking so I had to wait that period of time for it to get fixed and returned to me.  But HERE I AM! YAY! I can't promise a weekly update or anything, but I CAN promise it will not take me another month or longer to update this story. I am sincerely sorry for that.

Now, moving on…I'm not putting a sex scene in. I figured the plot stands well enough alone without it; plus it took me forever to try and decide whether I wanted one for so long in this chapter that I decided it would be better just not to put one so I would stop delaying the update! So…here we go. Hopefully I will be able to pick up the story right where I left off and there won't be a noticeable slump in quality or any plotholes or anything. If there is, just let me know, and I will use my handy editing skills  Anyway, here's the next chapter (which I technically call chapter 13-B considering it's a bit short, but oh well)

Enjoy, love you all.

Xxnadsxx

* * *

**Dark Humor**

**Fourteen**

"_A trauma powerful enough to create an alternate personality leaves the victim in a world where normal rules of right and wrong no longer apply..."_

_-Batman Forever_

* * *

She was pinned. Her heart spluttered against her ribs as the full weight of him pressed against her, nearly crushing her already injured frame. She gasped and struggled to crane her head away from the sudden nauseating nearness of him; the bloody cracks of leering, yellow teeth, the sickly odor of unwashed skin, onion, dirt and decay, the white face paint splotched with purpling bruises and trickles of blood that dried across his throat. The knife glinted at the edge of her vision, barely pressed against her splayed fingers, its handle still against the tips of her left hand. If she could just push forward, reach for it _somehow_, without the Joker's crippling weight on top of her, without the bulge of his lower body as well as the rest of his girth pressing against her, taking away every last breath…

"How long…" He rasped above her, his ringed eyes partially hidden by greasy green locks, his breaths heaving slightly yet his grip indicating no slackening of strength, "…does it take…to con-_vince_ you that you're _pow-er-less? _How much do I have to _bleed_ you, to _play_ with that thick little _skull_ of yours to make you un-der-_stand?!_"

For emphasis, he grabbed her temples, fingers pulling hair as he slammed her head roughly against the floor. She gave a cry as pain jarred her vision and reached again for the knife, yet it merely pushed further away from her hands with her struggling. Rachel knew as pain enveloped her body in an aching accumulation of bruises, cuts and scratches, that there _was _no possible way she could make it out of this…_freak's_ grip without resorting to something along his level of play.

"I—" The word came out as a choking, fluttering cry from the depths of her strained throat, an animal's whimper. He chuckled at the noise, his fingers scratching violently at her throat in response, the red welts searing heat on her skin,

"I…understand…that I'm—going to…._kill_ you—"

A sudden slackening in his grip, and she summoned all the strength in her bloodthirsty veins to act.

He hadn't anticipated it; her mouth pressed ferociously against his in a mirror of previous actions, and all she saw for a flicker of an instant were eyes wide and bloodshot closing suddenly into black rings, the smell of rot and the feel of grime between her fingers as she gripped his green head, the momentary lapse of control for the hungry nibbling and biting of a scarred mouth, pressed up hot against hers, like a hungry dog…

Yet _she_ was the one to bite.

Her teeth clamped down hard against scarred lips, so hard it was a kiss of venomous, passionate _hatred,_ and as he howled—(yet in pain or pleasure, she would _never_ know)—and bit _back,_ for she was a dog biting at a bear, the searing flash of pain as her lower lip trickled with fresh blood did nothing to saturate the sheer pleasure through her veins as his own blood dribbled across her chin, the knife in her hands, her wrist flicking forward to cut across a pearly white cheek. The Joker flew backwards, his scarred face a fresh masterpiece of mangled white and violet red, trailing down his lips and trickling across his left cheek. A whooping torrent of laughter tore through his red bleeding orifice while Rachel pulled herself as far backwards as her body was willing. With a curious satisfaction, she touched her own bloodied lip and nearly _relished_ the taste of the bitter iron on her tongue. She held herself fast to the wall behind her; pulled herself up, up _up, _despite the screaming of her nerves, the way her calf _seared_ in pure fiery pain, continuing to point the dagger with quaking hands at the Joker's sitting form. He was rocking himself back and forth, holding back giggles and chuckles while running eager hands across his mouth, licking at the blood like a hungry puppy devouring his scraps.

"Ver-_ry _impressive, Miss _Daweess!_" He half-shrieked, an expression of sheer delight lighting up his features, "Now you _fi_-nally know how it _feels._ _Don't_ you?"

God, she could barely stay standing, let alone stop from shaking. Hair flew in wildly untamed pieces about her face, nearly blocking the wide, near-opalescent sheen of her eyes, her furrowed brows. She found herself shaking her head, her feet moving ever so slowly to the door on the left side of the room,

"I don't know what you're talking about. Nobody does. You're _alone,_ Joker."

Her voice seethed with venom, yet shook along with her body. It was still so frail, despite the hatred that fueled it. The Joker rolled his eyes, crossing his arms smugly, wearing the trail of red pooling and crusting against his suit like a second skin,

"Or maybe _you're _just the one that's _al-_ways been alone, Rachel? Why _else_ would you have come _running here…_and to _kill_ me?!"

His shoulders upturned in mock disbelief, neck craning towards the side, the permanent crimson leer upon his face curving into a quizzical smirk,

"Well, if _everyone _out…_there, _outside of this place, knew about what _you_ were doing, pointing my knife at me, intending to _hurt_…me? Tell me, is that what _Harrveyy_ taught you when you were under his little…_wing?_ Was that what you knew to be the _real_ way to deal with Gotham's criminals all along? And yet you hid it, tried to hide your little _violent_ streak behind your job as a law-abiding little slave, second to Dent, hiding in his _shadow_ to make you feel a li-_ttle_ bit better about your _own_ existence."

"That's not true."

Her voice was a hiss; a reflex. She had stopped in her tracks, holding the quivering knife before her, her eyes suddenly filling with tears. An inescapable torrent of emotion filled her at the _bastard's _words; herself as a child, wide-eyed and innocent, wanting _aching_ to find some way to avenge the murder of her best friend's parents; the aching in her heart when Bruce had gone missing for so long, numbing her worry with files upon files of manila cases, every person locked away another satiation for her soul; the kindness of Harvey's eyes, the way his gaze would fill her with such _strength—_strength she had channeled all this time, the strength to _endure,_ the strength to cast away the thoughts in her sleep, of simply killing all those mobsters who would hurt the innocent without a second thought, of breaking the laws that did nothing time and time again but backfire and lead to more failed trials, more lives lost, yet she had placed her heart and soul and mind and body in _Harvey,_ had become a vessel, something anything _anything_ to lock away the violence, the thoughts that would make Bruce ashamed…

"I think you know it _is,_ lit-_tle_ Rachel. This…is the most _a-_live you've felt in a _very long time._"

She was hunched over at the sudden sharp pain in her calf, her breath hitched, her fingers still adamantly gripping hold of the knife. Slowly, she pulled herself across the wall towards the door, and at that moment, the Joker was getting up on his knees, inching nearer towards her as he made his way to his feet. He was a testament to chaos more than he had ever seemed before; the blood that matted his green hair, dried and clumped and smattered in damp patches against his forehead, the stark white face and black eyes marred with that same red that trickled across, smearing into the constant leering smile. The purple suit coat was torn open in a portrait of pain, pale chest badly disfigured with deep gashes and purpling bruises that, from this angle, oddly resembled _smiles,_ the stitches sewn sloppily, whispering wanting _tempting_ her to _tear them open_ and make him _bleed_ again.

Her knife was pointed in his direction, eyes never leaving his. Amusement rippled across his features in the widening of his lopsided grin, the quirking of chalky eyebrows, as if she were struggling to defeat something _godlike, _something eternal and _endless_; and with his body bloodied and still standing so still and composed (as composed as _he_ could ever be), she could not deny the assumption.

Maybe that was why she was suddenly so _afraid_ of him.

"Leave me _alone._" She meant to hiss; yet her voice came light, frail, like a little _girl's._

The same thought seemed to cross his mind. Another grin, this time bearing teeth; a white lion, crouched to leap forward and tear out her jugular. He had found his opportunity, and suddenly she raised the knife higher, anticipating his pounce,

"Leave you _alone,_ dear? You _want_ me, Rachel. You _need_ me. I am the _part of_ you—of so _many_ of this city's pathetic human pop-_u-lace_—that's just so much _FUN! _I wanted to teach you a little bit about all that chaos inside of you, and all that you've been holding _back._ Ya see, I've been doing you a fa-_vor! _And don't think that I _ever_ meant to kill Harvey purposely, as I've told you. Chaos…is random. Chaos is _fair._ And I'm just…a dog chasing cars! I _hurt_,"

he wringed his hands for emphasis, drawing nearer, so close, so near, and she whimpered and pushed herself away faster, faster against the wall, her eyes wide as she took in his words,

"people at _random._ I ruin _plans,_ I don't _have_ them. _Bat-_man does, _Gordon_ does, _Ra-_mi-_rezz_ did, Ma-_ro_-ni did. And all I did was _take_ their little plans and _twist_ them and turn them upside down! No…whatever happened to _you,_ my pretty little Rachel, happened because of _Batsy._ And we both. Know. _That._"

Her legs felt like lead as she stopped, again, partially because the pain in her calf was so overwhelmingly strong that she was afraid if she walked any further it would have literally split. Tears raked the corners of her vision, her mind feeling a sloppy jumble of confusion and stifled emotion as she suddenly _fell_ towards the ground, fell towards her knees. Yet a strong hand—_his_ hand, gloved and slippery—gripped her wrist with vicious force, pulled her back up so sharply she could almost feel the bones _crunch._ The knife still dangled on her side as she cried in pain, and he held the small of her back with his other hand with such force it wasn't as if he had been _helping_ her to stand—he had her in a death grip, cradled in the arms of a killer.

"You're wrong," She could only sob as her eyes still shone with rage, staring into his chalk-white, almost expressionless face, "You're wrong, you're wrong, you're _wrong._"

"_Am_ I?" He asked, and for once the amusement took a twinge of exasperation, "When _Batsy_ picked and chose Dent-_tuh_ over you…well how did that make you _feel? _When you thought that _you_ were going to be the one to die, lying there all _tied up_ in that chair, ready to be blown apart like fireworks in the sky. How did you _feel_ about _just-_ice, Rachel, when _just-_ice stabbed you in the _back?"_

A gloved hand clamped about her face; the fingernails dug into her skin, and the way his fingers moved with a sharp yet careful caress across her cheeks, it was almost like he was _stroking _her,

"The only thing completely _fair_ in this world…is cha-_os._ Not your little _laws_ to keep you feeling _safe_ at night, when _you_ know you let _someone else die_ because your verdict didn't get _through._ How many times have you _laid_ there, thinking of each and every mangled _face_ staring back at you from the slab, whispering to you that _it's your fault, _knowing now that one of them is _Harrveyyy, _haunting your dreams, and all because of _Batsy_ boy?!"

She didn't protest. Her tongue felt numb; stuffed with doubt, empty and void of words. Her hands trembled enough to nearly drop the knife; yet he raised his head, studying her much like an artist to a bowl of clay, and she realized all too late that he had been raising his head to expose his bloodied neck to her.

"Now you can fix _all_ of that," He said quietly, his hand gripping her other wrist and setting her nerves alight, fingers guiding it towards his throat. His knife glinted, shaking wildly against his skin, any inch nearer enough to pierce his jugular, "All you have to do…is learn how to kill what's _really _in your way."

She didn't even have time to register the gasp leaving her lips before her hand twitched to life. Mechanically, as if from the very depths of her soul, her fingers clenched upon the knife beneath the Joker's iron grip, moving it to scrape across the bloodied skin. Her vision was a pumping, whirling mass of adrenaline and lust, the chalk-white skin magnified before her senses, his heartbeat throbbing in her ears, so close so close so _very close_ to being punctured and stilled forever…

Her breath racked her ears, intermingling with his furiously pumping heart, with the pulse fluttering beneath her hesitant fingers. She sliced a shallow cut across the near-translucent flesh and heard a hiss of arousal, her eyes half-opened, ecstasy filling her veins as if she were drugged. And she _was,_ at that very moment, as droplets of blood began to pool against already caked skin, as she edged the knife deeper to a low carnal shudder from the madman who she was so tantalizingly _close_ to killing.

His eyes bore through her and her heart was clenched by ice; her grip was firmer, she was tearing deeper through skin, not quite near the jugular but enough to _hurt,_ and any more pressure and his heart would slow and he would feel _pain_ and the pleasure rushed through her body in hot flame between her legs as she cried out in bloodlust and pulled the knife back suddenly to thrust forwards—

A crash.

Windows burst behind them; instantly she was thrown to the ground as dozens of SWAT barreled through the air, landing just between her fallen body and that of the howling criminal opposite her. For a long time she had laid against the ground, dread filling every part of her body, her stomach twisting in sickening defeat as the sound of hailing gunshots and the feel of rough fingers checking her pulse and dragging her upwards made her innards scream.

He was gone.

She was being dragged across the ground, identical rows of blank faces passing like clouds against the blank panic of her mind. She struggled yet she was too weak; her limbs did nothing but flail, her mouth did nothing but whimper. Seas of blue uniforms and red blood; seas of questions that died into rippling waves with her silence, flooding her skull.

_Batman hadn't come._

Rachel fell against the ground, limp, like a doll, a fresh wave of pain crippling her leg yet doing nothing to quell the blankness in her mind. Men were ordering for stretchers, their voices assaulting her senses then filtering away like the sound of faraway static. Her knees bit into glass, debris strewn across the ground, her gaze consistent at asphalt smeared red.

It was then that she stared at the scattered shards of glass on the ground, taking in her reflection.

He had drawn lines across her face with the drying blood on her lip. Red lines across her cheek, forming the perfect curve of a smile.

*

She saw him momentarily, a flash of fluttering black against the pitch night sky. It had been before she had been placed like a doll into the police car, before her empty gaze and broken mind had registered her surroundings, so he had been more of a near-dream, perhaps a mere hallucination. He had been watching her from a perch against a low building, like a mourning raven, eyes soft behind the hardness of his vigilante mask, and for a moment she could _almost _bring the name to her parched lips, _almost_ recognize the kind, worn face beneath, the face she had once professed her love to, a very long time ago, when they had thought themselves immortal.

But the recognition died out like a flickering candle, leaving nothing but darkness in its wake. As they shut the car, she found she couldn't even remember his real name.

She had forgotten him entirely.

*

"Where's the safest place we could _put _her right now?"

Gordon's voice, exasperated, along the edges of her mind. She was sitting in a chair, fiddling with her fingers; her face had been washed, her wounds tended to, as if the incident had never happened. The small television monitor in Gordon's office had been turned off at her entrance; presumably because it had been broadcasting the Joker's latest massacre in full detail, including questions as to what _exactly_ went on in the building when the Joker had secured his hostage. Of course she hadn't replied to the questions, walked through the gauntlets of flashing bulbs and snarling reporters' faces as if it were mere air.

Everything was like air now, flowing through her fingers with the least pressure imaginable. Haunting her, like a ghost, clinging to her in perspiration and dreams. The officer at Gordon's side, a portly man who cast a wary eye in her direction before speaking, shrugged his shoulders,

"Hell if I know. No place in Gotham's safe—just like last week when the fucker burned the MCU to the ground. City's up over its head. Can't even trust the goddamn police force."

A frustrated sigh from her lips. She was pulling her knees to her head, burying herself against her lap. Her head _ached._ There was too much _noise,_ too much of their talking and squabbling, too much _screaming_ in her head, too much static in her brain. Her thoughts were skewered jumbles and then patches of empty nothingness, her nightmares flickering scenes of massacre and bloodshed from the past few weeks in grainy film. Who _cared_ where they put her? What was the goddamned _point,_ anyway?

"Miss Dawes?" Gordon's voice, strained and gruff with worry, pierced the chaos of her thoughts like a spear, "Are you all right?"

"What's. The point?" The words came in a near-stammer, her teeth clenched.

The portly officer's gaze, along with Gordon's, fixed upon her slight frame. She was kneading her hands as if they were dough, raking them with her fingernails, over and over, a nervous habit accumulated within the past few minutes. Her eyes stared down at the little white streaks on her skin with a sickening relish,

"The Joker wants me. Wants _Gotham._ And he's going to _get_ it, sooner or later, no matter how many people he has to kill along the way. And I'm just one of the population he'd be glad to destroy, since we all don't get the message he's trying to spread. But even then…he just wants _chaos._"

The word spat itself from her lips like a bitter curse, a corrosive acid aching to escape her tongue for fear it would burn her from the inside.

Awkward, tense silence from the two officers. A cough, and Gordon was fumbling with the glasses on the bridge of his nose, pinching the skin at the top,

"Rachel…we're working with Batman to do all we can. We found you last night in the nick of time, and if the Joker ever lays his hands on you again, we'll rescue you and make him _pay._ Now we're going to shelter you in the safest place we can think of, and we don't want you leaving under _any_ circumstances. Is that understood?"

The silence stretched on for what seemed an eternity. Finally, her blue eyes squeezed shut and she licked her lips, yet it did nothing to hold back the immense, near high-pitched giggle that escaped. It was all she could do not to howl, as she threw her head back and felt the throbbing ecstasy of the pain in the back of her head, the nod to her system that she was _alive._

"Don't you _understand,_ Gordon? It's _too late._ We could have just killed him and rid Gotham of him before he started taking lives like ants on a sidewalk. That's what we have to _do._ That's what…what _Batman_ has. To do."

She craned her head to stare back at them, respond to the boring feeling of their gazes in her skull. She wondered vaguely what they saw when they looked at her now. Gordon seemed more troubled than ever, his gaze near-twitching behind his glasses, the larger officer pale as he regarded her. She wasn't aware she had been smiling until she felt her lips stretched out at a near-painfully taut angle, her cheeks straining to hold it in place.

"Rachel, we'll do what we need to do to put the Joker in custody and away from Gotham for good. Now you sound like you're in a bit of shock, so perhaps it would be best if you stayed overnight in the hospital, just to sleep and recollect yourself—"

It burst forward _again, _this time, stronger, less human. The laughter rippled from the depths of her insides, desperate and high-pitched and keening, a laughter that resonated with the screams within her soul, the bitterness, the exasperation in the human race and all its naivety. She was laughing because it was _all she could do,_ seeing the faces she had _murdered_ in her minds' eye over and over again, at the countless others dead because of _her,_ at the people she had lost, the people who had never been locked away, the people like a _stain_ on the earth with their stupidity and their maliciousness and their greed, and as she thought about how hopeless it all was, how hopeless _everything _had _always been,_ her laughter bubbled and burst and frothed from within her, in great rippling currents in the air, until she was drowning drowning drowning in laughter, even when she was grabbed by the shoulders and thrown into a bed and, mercifully, oh-so _kindly _of them thank you dear doctor _sir!,_ the syringe plunged into her shoulder and she saw blackness.


	15. Fifteen: Death

**Author's Notes:**

Holy.

Snap.

This 'fic was last updated in February.

Well, in MY defense, this has been an extremely crazy year for me. But I am still ashamed and owe you all a HUGE apology. I mean to continue this fic 'til the end, and it's ALMOST the end, and I am going to see this through with the best quality (and timing!) possible. I can't believe how long it took me to finally have the time to update this, but here it is…the fifteenth chapter. Things are winding to the final climax, and I couldn't be happier. Actually, I'll be MUCH happier if I can get the next few chapters out with the best quality possible and am able to satisfy everyone in a good amount of time…I'm giving myself a deadline of a chapter a week, hopefully even more brief.

There's about two chapters left, actually. Sad.

But yes. I love you all, and thank you all SO much for reviewing, and reading, and liking this story. And I can't wait to finish it up until the epilogue for all your satisfaction & my own. This chapter's a little shaky, but I'm trying to get back into the groove of my writing style for this 'fic, so bear with me.

Love,

xxnadsxx

* * *

**Dark Humor**

**Fifteen**

"_A trauma powerful enough to create an alternate personality leaves the victim in a world where normal rules of right and wrong no longer apply..."_

_-Batman Forever_

* * *

The moon over Gotham was a scythe, sharpened for bloodletting. The stars were above him, their light never daring to illuminate his blackened frame. He'd always thought he didn't deserve that sort of light, anyway.

Maybe it was seasoned training that told him something abominable was going to happen. Or maybe it was just paranoia. Either way, he had been doing this for far too long, and had his mangled sanity to show for it.

_And really, the most amusing part of it all is when the lines blur between the villain and the vigilante…when you don't know what you're fighting, who you're fighting, why you're fighting. It is the most horrific, most horrible feeling in the world, and when it takes you it shakes you and never stops bleeding you._

He laughs, beneath his mask—the muffled noise is lost in the impenetrable darkness surrounding him. Eyes filter through pinpricks of holes, scanning the horizon back and forth, to and fro; a relentless dance. Fingers tap the side of the heavy helmet upon his head, confining his all-too-human skull, gauging the suddenly deafening sounds of static crackling in his ears. He taps his right ear sharply with his gloved hand, then with more force, cursing inwardly as the static rises to a crescendo of sharp screams—then altogether stills, quiets, falls to a comfortable hum. He is oriented again, and poised to strike, taking in the muffled speech of hundreds, thousands; people whispering and laughing and crying on their phones even at this late hour.

The job was despicable. It made you all the more paranoid of the citizens of Gotham—which ones carried bad intentions in seemingly innocent voices, which ones held double meanings to carefully muffled words.

No matter what you did to try and protect something, to try and _save_ something, it always ended up destroyed later.

Such was the law of nature.

Something even he was powerless to stop.

Powerless.

_Rachel._

The name seared through his mind like a flame, burning his thoughts with pain. He squeezed his eyes shut and tapped at the mask again, a second, a third time, almost willing wishing _wanting_ to hear her soft, delicate voice gracing the phone lines, pleasant and intact and unharmed.

He feared if he heard her, he wouldn't be able to even recognize her. How long had it been since he had spoken to Rachel Dawes, his childhood friend, the object of his affections, and how long had it been since he'd spoken to her _without_ the hysteria? The little girl with pigtails swinging to and fro like a bird, the young woman with her hair in a bun, confined in her suit…

Her face was a glazed mess in his mind; the eyes strained and haunted; the mouth thin and gaunt with tension. She was a corpse without death, and he had allowed her to decay.

_But she's still in there, somewhere…Rachel. _My _Rachel. All I have to do, is put the clown behind bars permanently. _

As if a premonition of what was yet to come, a searing cackle filled his mind, static and crackling and making his ears ache. Bent forward on his knees, fingers digging into his mask, his jaw tightened and blood pulsed through his head. The high-pitched voice began to speak and, in a blur, he was flying through the air, the thick billowing currents catching his cape aflutter, the world pumping and throbbing with adrenaline as he rushed to find the man who had destroyed everything in a matter of days.

He wasn't going to break his one rule, but he was going to get as damned close to it as possible.

*

Rachel Dawes was somewhere strange; somewhere she had never been before.

Her breath was heavy, rampant; her head ached and throbbed yet seemed to float in mid-air, her brain a suspension of heavy, muddled thoughts. Light flickered before her—whether in her mind, or in the room, she hadn't the faintest idea—and the room itself seemed to spin. Something pricked at her skin, sharp, fluids racing through her body yet seeming to slow and then quicken with her heartbeat.

Then, icy coldness clamped around her leg. She tried to shift in protest, yet her body refused, lying inert and unresponsive outside of her mind. She was too fatigued to even panic, yet her heart still quickened curiously in her chest…as if anticipating…as if knowing…

"Peek-a-_boo, _I _foouunndddd _youuuu!"

A smile in the darkness; red and twisted and vulgar, leering scars peeking at her from above. She recognized him at once—who couldn't tell that white face apart from any other being in Gotham, let alone existence?—and merely registered his presence with a blank stare. He seemed to float closer, slow and prowling.

He gripped her jaw with the force of an iron clamp, grimy thumb and yellowing fingers pressed against the soft flesh of her chin. She could smell the garlic decay as it blurred into focus between slightly misaligned teeth, the laughing irises watching her writhe in amusement.

"Did you _rea-_lly think you could get _rid_ of…_me? _I don't for-_get_ my _petssss,_ _Ra-_chel. I'm not _like_ the Bat-_man,_ or _Harrrvey._ It's about-_tuh_ time you _realized_ that."

Her breath hitched, but her body failed to respond as much as she willed it to continue thrashing; her tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth, as much as logic pressed her on to _scream. _It wasn't just the physical inability—it was that, deep down, a part of her didn't wish to scream, a part of her didn't wish this moment to _end._ Leering smiles curled into taunting sneers as a gloved hand reached over for her purse, found a silver tube hanging lopsided from the hastily-zipped front. He straddled her as he forced the top of the tube loose, and, cocking a head like a curious dog, sniffed the lump of red lipstick exposed to him.

"Why Miss _Dawwezzz,_" He drawled, smile curling until his face appeared a slit gash from ear-to-ear, "If ya wanted to _buh_-leed all this time, ya could have just _call_-ed me!"

With a high-pitched cackle, he pressed the tip of the lipstick to the hollow of her cheek. Rachel flinched, then, not from the adrenaline crawling in the pit of her belly, but from the coldness of the lipstick against her cheek, the feeling of the almost-rough tip as it glided against her skin, almost curiously _painful_ with the force of his grip. Press down enough and the whole tube would be wasted, a blotch of red on her former face, press down hard enough and she could swear it would somehow sink through her skin, into tissue and muscle and blood and even through her teeth, until a gaping hole lay, colored neatly red at the borders of a bloody orifice. _Like grade school scribbles._ The thought nearly made her giggle; she _would_ have, if the lipstick wasn't in the goddamned way of her cheek muscles.

"You _seeee,"_ The Joker continued with a near-hiss, bringing mop of tangled hair and slanted eyes so close her breath caused a few strands to fly, "this…ah…_lip_-stick…is really just…well…processed _whale_ buh-_lood!_" His voice cracked at the word "blood," and he shoved the lipstick with painfully rough force across her upper lip, so hard she was sure it would bruise within minutes. A gasp from her lips was the only indication of her pain, as his chuckling subsided and he eyed her again, mouth quirked in a predatorial smirk,

"It's quite a-_musing_, really, dearest _Ra-_chel…how you wear a _mask,_ in and outtt, re-_flec-_ting the, ah…_true_ you. Always painting that _face_, the loveliest shade of _buh-_lood, with your _whale blood…_does _Batsy_ know how much you _love_ the buh-_lood_shed, darling _Ra-_chel?! Did _Harrr-_vey figure it out…? No, you _hid _it, until it came back to _hurt_ you in the end, Miss _Dawezz!_ And hurt you, it _will…_"

A flick. The lipstick was against her mouth, forgotten, for the shine of the blade in the Joker's hands. He traced it against the half of her face he had painted, with a longing ache in the flick of his wrist, the slight gape of his mouth, the licking of serpentine tongue against cracked, scarred lips. Back and forth the knifepoint traced that line, back and forth, the coolness almost soothing to her, and she felt as if she were in a trance, something pulling her beneath the sway of his knife, something beyond human emptiness.

"I could just _tear_ away at this little _mask_ of yours…tear it all a-_part_…and what would be _left,_ but the lit-_tle_ monsterrr inside you, that little _Batsy boy _and Gor-_don_ failed to _see?"_

Her breath heightened until she was sure she would suffocate, the knife gently digging into the hollow of her cheek, her own near-elated gasp as the feel of warm blood dribbled against her skin. He was about to pull his hand away but her fingers locked around his wrist—eyes wide, the Joker's lips twist into scarred confusion as she dragged the knife point back towards her cheek, her eyes half-opened, her breath hot,

"_Cut _me."

He hesitates; she grabbed the knife from him and welcomed the oozing, dribbling blood, his laughter an ecstatic cry into the night.

*

Rachel's eyes fluttered, sweat soaking her forehead as she awoke from her…_dream? Nightmare? _

Light seared at her vision, hot white and scalding—she focused in a daze of distorted colors and shapes, like the blurring of a kaleidoscope lens. Her body was numb cotton against muted white sheets, and she was suddenly aware she was heavy all over, as if an anvil had been pressed against her body for years and the weight had just been relieved. A groan escaped her lips as she pulled herself up to a sitting position—then realized she could only go as far as a few inches from her pillow.

Her wrists ached. Her legs were dead limbs against an invisible weight. She strained her hands to find they would not respond; instead writhed like captive worms in steely restraints.

Restraints. She was tied up.

Tied up and belted down, in a hospital bed.

Hysteria filled her eyes with empty tears, bit at the back of her mind like savage vermin. All logic and reason seeped from her skull and replaced itself with a primal spout of giggling, bitten back by her forceful teeth against trembling pink lips. She looked around wildly at the beeping machines and whirring monitors, the slick dead cleanliness of her white-tiled room, felt her gorge rise. She was restrained in this room like a _crazy_ person. Like a victim of a psych ward, like a convicted killer on death row, waiting to be injected and filled to the brim with drugs. The thought brought a snarl to her lips, caused her head to dart to and fro in near-panic.

She had to get _out._ She wasn't _crazy,_ she wasn't being held here for any good reason. She could barely remember what had happened before blacking out, but she had merely panicked, and such a response wasn't enough to warrant…_this _treatment. Curling her lip and feeling her heart pump viciously within her throat, she fought the violent urge to rip herself free of the straps as the door quite suddenly swung open and a gentle voice rang through.

"Oh, Miss Dawes is awake! Hi there, dear, how are you feeling?"

Instantly, Rachel winced at the saccharine sweetness of the nurse's voice, a short plump woman with thick glasses and a sympathetic face. Her syllables were careful and slow, as if Rachel were suffering a mental illness. The nurse was walking towards her with a steady pace, and further straining of Rachel's eyes toward her gloved hands indicated she held a syringe on a tray, along with pills and a cup of water.

She turns her head away to fight back the onslaught of panicked tears. She was being _held _here, restrained like an animal, and if she fought back she would be drugged and subdued. The room felt like a cage threatening to close in and suffocate her.

"Why…why am I here?"

Her voice croaked, unusually slow and soft—possibly from the drugs in her system, poisoning her, _weakening_ her. The nurse stopped before her and smiled again, though obviously forced,

"You're here under the Commissioner's orders, dear. It's simply a means to protect you from all the mayhem in Gotham, and you'll be out as soon as the criminals are caught. Don't worry,"

her smile widened, and she patted at Rachel's right hand, sending needles of dull pain through her tired muscles,

"we'll take good care of you."

Humming to herself, the nurse disregarded any response from Rachel as she placed the tray on the desk near her bed and began to put the pills, one by one, into a cupped palm. She fought the panic that ebbed through her system, throbbing and pulsing into her veins, and willed her mind to _think._

"Please," she croaked, and the nurse suddenly stiffened, as if stunned to hear her speak any further, "I'm…in pain."

"Oh, well _dear," _She immediately retorts in that sugary tone, "I've got just the painkillers for you! And it will help you sleep a bit, as well; you'll wake up good as new."

Suddenly disregarding the pills, the nurse began to fill the syringe, yet Rachel noticed her hands trembled, her eyes tightening.

"No…these restraints," she licked her cracked lips and groaned slightly, "…they're too _tight._ They hurt so much. _Please, _I won't hurt anyone…please."

The nurse hesitated; she cast a suddenly wild-eyed stare at Rachel, making her stiffen in her bed. What did this woman think she _was?_

"I'm sorry," she said carefully, "I was warned about this. All of Gotham knows…they know you're sympathizing with…with…"

Her fist tightened against the syringe and she pulled it against her chest, nearing Rachel's suddenly struggling form. She couldn't let her prick her with it; who knew how long she would be out, how much she would be drugged? She craned her head away yet knew it was useless; the restraints bulged and tightened against her grip, digging into her skin with biting force.

"He _killed_ my husband," The nurse whimpered above her, her hands trembling more forcefully than ever, "he _killed_ him and left his…his entrails around the house, an organ in each room, and his heart—his heart was in our _bed._ And you'll become a monster, just like him, if I don't _put you to rest right now!—"_

The syringe sailed through the air and Rachel opened her mouth to scream—

A loud bang interrupted the noise from her lips, the body plummeting down on top of her chest. Blood, hot and sticky, seeped into her hospital gown and her white sheets, and she found herself staring into the haunted, lifeless eyes of the nurse, then at the giggling figure gazing down at her through the boring hole in her forehead.

Rachel gazed questioningly at the man, feeling a curious lack of fear replaced with intrigue at the doctor-coated figure which was obviously anything but. From her vantage point he was ungodly pale, paler than the chipping hospital walls, his eyes ringed with either fatigue or drug-use or a very heavy combination of the two. Black hair clung in greasy strands across his neck and face; she thought a straitjacket would have suited him better than the uniform he now masqueraded in.

Without hesitation, he shoved the nurse's dead body violently off of Rachel's frame. It landed with a hollow thud on the ground, and Rachel gasped at the sudden burst of air into her lungs. He fingered a knife before rapidly slashing at her restraints, then turned on his heel and craned a wiry head out the opened door for any sign of hospital personnel that had possibly heard the gunshot. Rachel pulled herself to a sitting position, rubbing at her aching limbs, and willed her swaying frame to stand on the cold floor. Barefoot, she winced and pushed herself away from the pool of fresh blood, thick and flowing across the cold ground. She wondered curiously why her bile did not rise, why she did not turn away in disgust from the corpse and its remains. Instead she merely peered at it as an inconvenience, as she didn't want to get anymore bloodstains on skin or clothing.

"Let's go," the man said in a near-hysterical hiss, his voice crackling slightly as he spoke, "gotta get out. Boss's orders."

Rubbing at her aching wrist, she rummaged through a bag in the corner of the room to sift with relief through her personal belongings and clothing. She pursed her lips before asking the obvious question,

"boss?"

A sneer, the man's eyes twitching in impatience. He practically leered at her before replying,

"wasting _time._ Boss wanted me to get you outta here. Now you can do what you want, but don't land yourself back in this shithole again. Only chance."

He let out a muffled giggle at something down the hall; the sound of scrambling feet and frantic voices. Rachel decided that was their cue to leave, and pulled her bag at her shoulder, following the obviously crazy man as it appeared to be her only chance to avoid being restrained again. He grabbed at her arm roughly to keep her steady and force her forward, yet as she walked, she found she nearly tripped on a cold, smooth object on the floor.

It was a tube, lying inches away from the blood still pooling across the room.

She licked her mouth. The strangest taste welcomed her; not the taste of iron that blood so closely resembled, but the taste of something artificial, something with a similar bitterness yet heavy and _dead._ The thickness clung to the tip of her tongue, and as she reached for her mouth, she felt the surface smear. Cakey redness flaked upon her fingertips, and upon further examination, it appeared to have recently dried on her skin.

It was her _lipstick._

*

The phone was ringing.

Gordon sat in a hospital room, on a sturdy chair, his head in his upturned palms. His glasses hung askew from eyes clenched shut, face pink with restrained frustration. The constant blinding flash of cameras cast white spots behind his eyes, voices interrogating the nurses, mops that dunked into blood and water, blood and water…

And his goddamned cell phone wouldn't _stop ringing._

Cursing, he gripped the damned thing hard enough in his hands his knuckles turned white. The number flashed unknown; but he had just _spoken_ to Batman, who was supposedly on his way to stop this _fucking mess._ Who could it be now? Did he forget something, did he lose the Joker _again,_ did he call to let him know he had checked up on his family in the meantime, his wife and son were nestled safely in their beds, free from the massacre, and he didn't have to worry about seeing their heads hung on his front door tomorrow, like some of his closest _fucking _friends on the force…

"Hello?"

He did the best to restrain his voice; it came through clear and stoic, almost corpse-like.

A thin veil of static answered him.

Brows knitted in frustration, he clenched his teeth and came close to slamming the phone into the floor with brute force. He would have if it weren't for the breathing suddenly filtering through the phone—soft, feminine, oddly familiar…

"Gordon."

"Rachel?"

He felt his eyes widen and his voice was a loud whisper; several policemen nearby turned their gazes curiously, and he held a hand to dismiss them.

"Don't look for me anymore."

The voice sounded nearly lifeless, devoid of emotions. He wondered if it was the hospital drugs or just her state of mind. He pinched the bridge of his nose and glanced about frantically, taking in a deep breath,

"Rachel, you're in shock. Where are—"

"I'm not coming back, Gordon. This is the end."

He froze and fought the panic growing in his chest, "What are you _talking_ about?!"

Rachel didn't seem to hesitate, as if she were robotic,

"I'm going to kill him. And after that, you won't be able to find me. You can't, anyway, no matter how hard you try."

"But _Rachel,_ Batman is coming! Let _him_ do it, I don't understand why you insist—"

"Goodbye, Gordon."

He was greeted by a dead line.

Cursing, he slammed his phone into the ground and grabbed at his face in frustration. His team was surrounding him, watching him with questioning, near-perturbed gazes. All he had to do was shout the orders, and they'd be following Batman in a heartbeat.

He didn't know if it would be fast enough.


	16. Sixteen: Revelation

**Author's Notes: **Hello lovelies!!! I finally finished another chapter, I'm not giving up on you all :) This is almost the end of the story, it's drawing to a near-close...and I really appreciate the readers who have stuck through with this 'fic for such a long period of absence on my part. You guys all rock and I love all of you, to be completely honest. You're the reason I'm determined to finish this 'fic!

Anyways, I received requests for a recap on the events at the end of the fourteenth chapter because the fifteenth was confusing for some...at the end of the fourteenth, Rachel's encounter with the Joker left her in a panicked state of shock or hysteria. She was sedated and knocked out, and confined to a room in the psych ward, for two reasons: because she did not have a place to hide from the Joker as he threatened all of Gotham if they did not find her whereabouts, and so consequently the people of Gotham will think she is involved with the Joker somehow, and there are no options she can take publicly in hiding from him without being found. So it's for her safety that she be confined in the hospital...secondly, because she had the risk of posing a danger to herself and others through her hysterical little episode she threw and through the Joker's public want of her, either to kill her, or for some other reason the public is unwary and unsure of...she has lost all the trust of Gotham's public in her D.A. abilities because it is rumored she is in cahoots with the Joker somehow, and so she is feared and hated. It's a typical scapegoat or mass hysteria effect when a group of people are suffering through a crisis and they need someone to blame...

This chapter I didn't really expect to end in the way I did. But I guess it makes things more excited for the final two chapters...(yes, two!) I'm going to be really sad when I finish this, but I'll be continuing "Don't Fear the Reaper" after this.

Anyway, please read and review...and above all else, enjoy! :)

xoxo

* * *

**Dark Humor**

**Sixteen**

"_A trauma powerful enough to create an alternate personality leaves the victim in a world where normal rules of right and wrong no longer apply..."_

_-Batman Forever_

* * *

Gordon was chain-smoking.

He had never felt such an urge in his life, but as he stared across at the television, his chest stung and his skin crawled. That wasn't where it ended, however. These past few days (_days? _Were they really only _days?)_ of mayhem had been carefully calculated by the manipulative _bastard,_ all building up to this climax of "sending a message to the citizens of Gotham"…that _what?_

That one of two ferries, one wielding citizens, the other prisoners, could have the level of sadistic insanity equivalent to the clown criminal and destroy the other to survive?

The restless twisting in the pit of his stomach told him he wasn't exactly optimistic about the outcome. The commissioner had seen many sights in his days; children's dead bodies lying precious feet from their mother's homes, families brutally massacred and mutilated, to doubt that there was any good within the world…let alone a single human being. Anxiously, he watched the policemen scramble to find any clues as to the Joker's whereabouts, clutching his cell phone in a rigid hand, smoke curling from the cigarette in his other.

_He_ doubted the good of the few, as well as the collective whole, to willingly sacrifice themselves for others. The commissioner could already envision the explosions, like macabre fireworks of blood and gore, splattering the surviving ferry and countless feet across the shoreline of Gotham; inevitable, unstoppable.

_But Batman could always fix these things better than Gotham's finest could._

And with that thought, he gazed upwards at the sky, not looking for a deity, or whatever lay beyond the stars, but for the hopeful fluttering of a cape and a bat-like shadow to renew his dwindling hope.

*

Rachel Dawes wasn't sure what to think when the sudden congestion in the streets plagued the roads like a vehicular stampede. Of course, she had just heard the news—who hadn't?—yet for some reason there was no flurry of panic in her heart; all she could do was lick dry, cracked lips, gaze nervously out from the stand-still taxi she was currently in at the masses of people frantically honking and screaming and banging on windshields in an animalistic frustration to get _out._ Gotham traffic had always had a reputation for being savage, with accidents on virtually every block, the middle finger flashing as frequently as stoplights and police cars packed with busy days of traffic tickets and accidents. But it had been nothing like _this._ The former was mere child's play; this was sheer, raw terror.

"What's going on?"

Her voice was deliberately a near-shout to overpower the frantic curses and screams from outside, penetrating the closed windows of the taxi, causing her head to throb. The driver, a middle-aged bespectacled white man, shook his head and watched the traffic jam ahead with wide milky eyes that seemed to tremble in their sockets.

"No idea what to do," He replied in a hoarse whisper, "Dunno if we're _ever _gonna get outta this jam for a couple'a hours, people tryin' to get past the bridges when they wired with TNT, crazy motherfucker trapping us all in this damn hellhole city…all of Gotham out here tonight, hopefully my kids still at home, and all because of some _fuckin'_ clown! Damnit!"

Rachel watched his thick brows knot together through the rear-view mirror as he slammed a fist into the steering wheel, causing the horn to honk in a long, frustrated cry. It was a chorus of honking horns, of fists bashing, of children crying and men shouting at one another. Nearby was a plain black van, a toddler crying while trying to comfort the screaming newborn at his side all at once, their parents gazing off through their places in the front seat with mortified expressions. The sound of a gun burst through the air, intensifying the panic tenfold, as Rachel stared at the brawl unfolding before them. A gang of men were beating one another, their car doors left wide open, fists and brass knuckles and knives flying as they fought recklessly, blood spraying white t-shirts and splattering against cars pressed against their sweating backs and on tire-streaked pavement, and she saw the dent in one of their vehicles, saw the raw panic mixed with fear on their faces that they could only satiate with _violence…_

"Jesus Christ!" Her driver screamed, and she managed to duck before a body flew at her window.

A man, wide-eyed and obviously dead, was pressed against the car door momentarily, his blood-soaked cheek against the glass, before slipping off slowly, leaving a thick trail of red where he had fallen. She had seen the glint of a knife in his throat and with morbid curiosity she found herself leaning against the red-splattered window, looking downwards for a closer look at his fallen body…

She licked her lips again, and went to open the door, if only to get a better look at the mangled face…

The cab driver's hand gripped her collar tightly and pulled her roughly backwards, causing her to cry in surprise,

"What are ya, crazy?! What do you think yer doin' tryin' to get outta the cab with all this shit goin' on?! Yer gon' get yourself killed, and I'm not about to have a payin customer lose her life in all this shit before we get—"

The color drained from his face. Rachel saw herself in the reflection of his glasses, her gaze vicious, hand trembling against the pistol she held up before him. His eyes trembled again; she noticed a vein pulsed purple against his head when he was nervous, and the look he was giving her was almost…comical. Something raw and primal filled her with adrenaline; whether it was the chaos outside, the way the taxi still shook from the frantic police cars driving hurriedly to struggle to stop the chaos, the recent surge of violence, or the man's fearful gaze before her as she held her gun up to his face, she wasn't sure. But for once in a very long time she felt in _control,_ and she was going to make sure she wasn't about to lose that feeling anytime soon.

"Listen," She said carefully, keeping her tone level and choosing the most delicate words she could muster, "I need to get somewhere, and I need to get there…_fast. _That _clown_ you were talking about? I'm planning on shooting him with this very same pistol that I have aimed at you, _right¸now." _

Although the cab driver's face was still white and rigid, a snort of disbelief came from within his throat. At this she immediately cocked the pistol and at the sudden sound the man whimpered and shook his hands,

"I…I got kids, I got kids in all this mess, so _please_—"

"I'm not going to hurt you, if you cooperate with me," She replied soothingly, though her finger felt hot and prickly against the trigger, "I just _need_ to get a way out of this jam. Do whatever you can to get me as _fast_ as you can to the coordinates I give you. Then you can go along your way, and I'll even pay the fare. Do we have a deal?"

It was as if she expected him to falter, to fight back somehow. Her fingers trembled even more when she waited for his response, and she felt that he could see right through her, could see how inept she was with her weapon, would punch her and try to subdue her…

But he nodded, slowly, shaking so severely his glasses began to fall against the bridge of his nose. A grin of relief appeared carnal in the reflection of his spectacles as she pushed it back up towards his eyes and nodded her head, gun pressed to his temple.

"Drive."

*

_False coordinates._

Batman snarled and slammed his fist into the motorcycle as he sped through the streets, cutting across sidewalks and weaving through screaming pedestrians toward an unknown destination. Static whizzed through his helmet, the phone lines flooded with frantic conversations, whimpering "I love you's" and inaudible, muffled crying. The crescendo of voices was almost overwhelming; his vision blurred and his head throbbed with the pain, with the overwhelming _guilt._ He could have stopped this frenzy of panic days ago, could have broken his rule and _killed_ the goddamned face-painted bastard.

_No. Calm down. So close…you're so _close. _You can't let him get the best of you; stay _focused.

Teeth gnashed against one another and his bike whirled through side alleys and streets backed up with traffic, the motorcycle whining as he pushed a button and a spray of flames burst from the back. Instantly he was propelled into the air, the vehicle jumping across swarms of congested cars and people running through the traffic in an attempt to somehow escape, his cape fluttering in the air as if he were actually flying for some surreal moment.

_Surreal? Gotham is surreal. This whole situation is surreal. _

"And I refuse to let it go on any longer," He hissed beneath his mask, and as if on queue, the static in his head seemed to focus on a shrill, high-pitched cackle.

"_Heeelllll-_ooooo, _Batsy-_boy! I trust you can hear me cuh-_lear-_ly with what-_ever_ little con-_trap-_tion you've got in that _freak _suit of yours!"

A series of giggles ensued, to which Batman snarled and jammed the brake on his bike in response. He couldn't drive with the intense rage boiling beneath his skin; every fabric of his being seemed to prickle and churn, and as he leaned against an alley he held his phone to his lips, ready to call Gordon.

"Joker," He hissed in return, "what the _hell_ have you done? WHERE ARE YOU?!"

His voice was a shout that elicited a mocking yelp from the Joker,

"_Owwwww! _Not so easy on the _ears, _are ya, _Batsy?! Any-_way, I figured I'd in-_vite_ you to my little pre-fireworks _bash_ I'm having at my _liiiii-_ttle spot near the ri-_ver!_ Ya see it's only V.I._P_, and _you're_ my guest of honor, having _failed_ all of _Goth-_am!"

There was no laughter in his voice then; sounding serious, he lowered his tone to a sadistic whisper,

"…How does that make-_uh_ you _feel?_ Knowing you're _killing_ your loved ones…your little _Ra-_"

"Shut up and tell me what you want, _Joker,"_ Batman growled in response, his nerves teetering on the edge of collapse, "Tell me _why _you're doing this."

"_Why?! WHY?!_" The Joker burst into hysterical laughter, a hyena with undertones of something more sadistic, more carnal and wicked.

Batman was grabbing at his helmet, his teeth grit, before the Joker's laughter suddenly subsided, "Oh, you _knowww_ why I'm doing this, _Batsy…_because it's _fun!_ Who said Gotham couldn't use a few _fiireee-_works to _cel-_ebrate the joyous occasion of its _death?!_ Don't be quick to judge the po-_ten-_tial of its grand citizens, _Batsy boy…_you've mis_judged_ a few _pre-_cious people in your life, after all."

His voice took on a smug tone; Batman flinched, his eyes wincing beneath the suddenly overwhelming heaviness of his mask.

_Rachel._

"I'm not playing your _games,_ Joker," he snarled, ignoring the air of amusement he could feel the Joker's very presence emanating on the other line, "Tell me where you are!"

"Oh you'll play _my game-uh, _Batsy. You'll _play_ it alright. If you want _any_ of the people on those ferries to survive, and if you _don't_ want Miss _Dawes' _cold little body in _your _hands, drained of all its…buh-_lood,_"

he could feel the smile creep onto the Joker's face, could visualize the licking of his lips, the excited leer,

"but _actually, _you know, cold and lifeless would _suit_ her! I mean, the way she's been _act-_ing lately, first it's the _mind,_ then it's the _body, _all _chopped up into tinnyyyy little pieces!—"_

"TELL ME WHERE YOU ARE!"

A spray of spittle from his lips, his fist colliding with the brick wall nearby, a shower of debris and rubble falling to the ground in the wake of his rage. The Joker let out a satisfied chuckle, before purring like a satiated cat,

"_That's _a good little _bat-tuh…_I'm not faking ad-_dress_-es anymore…_come_ catch me if you _caaannnn….!_"

The line went dead, and immediately the coordinates were recorded; he dialed Gordon's number while speeding blindly through the streets of Gotham, too angered to question the bloodthirstiness that enveloped his mind.

*

The taxi came to a jolting halt. Five near accidents down three streets, at 70 miles per hour, there hadn't been a police car in sight as so many were preoccupied with calming down the frantic citizens. The bumper was damaged and there was a dent near the end of the taxi, yet it was stable enough to last the night. Considering the conditions they were all under, a little damage seemed justifiable enough in Rachel's mind.

"We're finally here," the cab driver rasped, his fingers shaking on the steering wheel, knuckles as ghastly white as his wrinkled face, "now please…"

Before he could finish, Rachel pushed the door open with a sudden frantic fervor, throwing a crisp 50 dollar bill at the now empty seat. Immediately the cab sped off without the door shutting, and a dark urge to giggle at the frenzied sight nipped at the edges of her mind. She tucked the gun into her coat pocket and traversed the suddenly too-long steps up towards the bleak building in which she knew the Joker to be waiting in.

Something escaped Rachel then; some semblance of…_sanity?_ Her jaw tightened, her throat scratched with the urge to scream, or laugh, or cry, or a mixture of all these things at once, her fingers itched to curl into fists, to tear apart, to gouge…

Standing on the steps alone, she began to tremble uncontrollably. Rachel could feel the color sink from her face, returning in an overwhelming current of red heat that pulsed blood beneath her cheeks. Adrenaline, hot and fluid, frothed and boiled within her—the familiar feeling only he seemed to arouse, the licking of her lips, the tingle of her canines. The gun seemed to throb against her hip, and her eyes burned.

_Finally…_

Without another moment's hesitation, the D.A. stepped inside the building.

The first floor was barren, completely empty save for caked dust and a deafening silence that permeated every inch of the site. The entire building was still under construction, cold open air permeating through the lack of walls, with faulty flooring that creaked beneath her feet, the occasional rafter hanging lopsided in the air. Twice she quickened her step at the sound of skittering mice, and nearly jumped into the elevator. She pressed the button for the highest floor, assuming the Joker would logically favor such a high perch—where else would be most fitting to watch his little "fireworks show?"—and her adrenaline peaked to a new high, enough to dizzy her.

_I can end this all…it will all finally _stop.

She felt weightless in the elevator, even as it shook and rattled ominously through each floor, her legs like liquid. Momentarily shutting her eyes, she savored the pitch blackness. Soon her life would reflect that blackness, a monotonous peace she could know and enjoy, whether living or dead—she no longer cared. All she wanted was an end, and she would have one tonight.

A beep brought her back to reality.

The elevator began to open, almost painstakingly slowly, creaking slightly as the doors shifted apart. Her feet pressed roughly into the ground and she grabbed at the outline of her pistol in her coat, as if for comfort. Licking her lips, a strange hunger arose in her chest; not the pangs for food, but for something entirely different.

_Blood._

It was what her mind was telling her; something that Rachel would have scoffed at before, in all her naïve little logic. But blood was what she wanted. She was no more than a vampire at that moment; undead, needing, wanting, vicious. She would kill, as she was meant to, as she must. And without bloodshed, she would have no peace; she would die if she wouldn't get her fill.

The elevator door opened completely, and Rachel took a deep breath before stepping out of it and surveying her surroundings.

What she saw elicited a gasp and stiffening of her limbs.

Men—gagged and bound all around her. Their wrists were in layers of duct tape, their mouths sealed shut, yet their eyes seemed to betray no fear. That was the most striking thing of all; they gazed steadily forward, without seeming to register their surroundings or the fact that they were being held captive. Rachel took a step back, nearly walking backwards into the elevator shaft. It took her a moment before she realized each little group of men, bound against pillars, was being held at gunpoint by…_clowns?_

No, they _weren't_ clowns. Not the Joker's clowns, at least.

Their wrists mirrored those of the men against the pillars; wound tightly by duct tape, their mouths as well. Yet clown masks shielded their faces, and for an instant she could make out the face of a young girl behind a mustached clown mask, her eyes wide in terror, whimpering beneath the tape against her mouth. Guns were plastered to the duct tape against their wrists, and if she were standing any further away she could have sworn they were holding them.

_It's a trick,_ her mind immediately hissed; _he's planning to trick them. Planning to trick Batman and the entire police force. And all these people will be…_

"Oh my _dearest _Miss _Dawes, _is that you I hear, whimpering like a _liiiiii-_ttle _pup_-py?!"

Rachel jolted from her thoughts, a cold sweat trickling along her spine. Strangely the reaction seemed instinctive, as she felt no lingering panic. Numbness swelled within her mind, keeping her relaxed as she craned her head upwards to regard the set of stairs and the highest floor the elevator wasn't built to reach.

_Of course._

For a moment she envisioned herself pulling the trigger at the first sight of the milky white head that would pop out of nowhere to greet her, the bullet settling right between his eyes, an explosion of brilliant red blood and chunks of brain splattering all over her, cold and slimy and _beautiful. _Yet she merely shook her head and positioned herself nearby the stairs, hesitating before speaking,

"I'm here to finally end this, _Joker._"

His name was like a curse in her mouth; the gun was hot in her pocket. A surprisingly low, controlled chuckle from above followed her words. The sudden barking of dogs, booming through the wide expanse caused her to jump upwards, and the chuckle intensified to a series of whooping cackles as the barks subsided into growls.

"As you can hear, my _dear-_est Rachel…I brought a few, ah, _guests_ for our little _date-_tuh tonight. But not to worry; they're not for _youuuu! _They're for our _special_ guest. A certain..._rooo-_dent with wings!"

Her fingers ached to grab at her weapon, yet she kept herself still as she registered the Joker's words. She knew he wouldn't go so far as to kill Batman, yet he seemed to want to come as close as possible. And if his plan was so carefully construed as to distract both him and the police from saving the two ferries, what else was he driven to use…?

"_Joker,_" she suddenly said in a low, irritated hiss, "Does he _know_ I'm here?!"

Finally, _finally,_ the sight of the Joker's white head popped from the top of the staircase, scarred lips twisting into a sadistically amused smile,

"Oh now my _dear-_est little Rachel," he practically purred, several leashes strung tightly in a gloved hand, the other swaying back and forth as if in a comforting gesture, "_why_ would I…_ru-_in such a _perrr-_fect surprise?"

He cocked his head, eyeing her as if he were utterly confused at her questioning. Shrugging his shoulders to dismiss what she had said, he continued, his smile seeming to tighten and broaden all at once,

"Butyou _knowww…_it _does_ help get him here a tad…_fast-_er, considering he feels _oh-so_ guilty for letting you fall into _my_ hands, though I'm sure _you_ enjoy e-_ve-_ry minute of it!"

His tongue snaked over reddened lips, and Rachel felt her body shudder in a mixture of anger and…something else. She had no time to notice the strange feeling in her insides as her fists tightened and her teeth gnashed,

"He can't do it first. He _can't…_I won't let him!"

An excited cackle slithered from between the Joker's crooked mouth, and he momentarily let go of the leashes against his glove to hop gracefully down from the metal stairs to the floor on which Rachel stood. He landed inches away from her, causing her to jump backwards, a cloud of dust shooting upwards in the air while the purple-suited psychopath brushed the debris coolly from his coat,

"_Weeelll, _then!"

His high-pitched words were accentuated by the raising of his gloved hands, chalk-white brows rising above lined eyes in mock flattery,

"Miss _Daweezz…_I didn't know we were so _in_-ti-_mate_ that you would want to…_hurt…_me so,"

His knife wasn't out, but she could still feel the biting edge in his voice; the threat that lingered, solid and fatal, in his every word. He was circling her before she knew it, his breath hot and revolting against her ear, a dirt-smudged gloved hand reaching to stroke at her hair. Recoiling slightly, Rachel found her legs refused to cooperate—_why?—_and instead she fumbled about slightly on solid feet. The Joker chuckled at her reaction and traced a finger along the back of her neck; she could feel his sharp fingernails even through the fabric of his glove.

"How many _times_ has it been since I could have…_killed _you? Time and time a-_gain,_ we keep having these little…_ren-_de-_vouz _without daddy _Bat_-sy's permission, and time and time a-_gain_, you always manage to—"

With lightning speed he jumped in front of her, thrusting his gloved hands before her face. Rachel yelped in response and fell to the floor, struggling to pull herself backwards across the dusty ground and keep level with the Joker's mirth-filled stare,

"_POOF!_ _Dis_-a-_ppear! _Now that's _bad_ manners, my pretty little _Raaaa-_chel, es-_pec-_ially when we're on one of our many…_dates._ And I _may_ have to teach you a _les-_son or two in _discipline. _Mainly…"

A sharp glint of light in the dim room, and his knife was out, reflecting the oddly empty look in her eyes as she watched. Fear did not gnaw at her, nor trepidation, but rather excitement—sharp and hot in her bones, her breath quickening at the sight. The Joker licked his scarred lips in primal thirst, a trigger of the wielding of his knife, the power he held,

"…making _sure_ you don't…_leave_ this time. At least…not-_tuh_ in one…_piece."_

He advanced towards her, while she pulled her body backwards, sliding her hands across the ground to distance herself as far away as she possibly could. Yet her legs stopped mid-way, her hands refused to move any further, and she merely gazed up at him, the curious emptiness building within her reflected in her monotone voice.

"I'm not going anywhere, Joker…and _I'm_ not the one to be in multiple pieces."

For a moment the clown actually paused to gaze at her, his head tilted to the side,

"I don't think you…under_stand_ just how…_hope-_less your situation _is,_ my li-ttle _Raaaa_-chel."

He was coming closer; his knife glinting in the dim light, yet Rachel could only glare at him, the whiteness of his skin a paper cut out in sharp contrast to the blackness around them, the blackness in his stare. His lips twisted as if ready to chuckle as he flicked his knife towards her in a sharp, rigid motion; yet Rachel didn't even flinch. She lay there like a stone, her breath hot in the frigid air, mirrored by the madman's excited inhales above her. The Joker's brows furrowed, the white lines in his forehead creasing. Rachel felt a giggle tickle at her throat at the rare sight.

The Joker was unnerved.

"You can't scare me."

Rachel's voice was a mere whisper, yet it mirrored itself in the digging of her nails in the ground beneath her body, the rigidness of her frame, the heaviness of the gun in her pocket, ready to be used at her discretion. For a moment the clown prince of crime seemed frozen; the red-painted mouth was curled into a sneer, the eyes still boring into her, as if struggling to take her soul apart, to pick at the fear he so wanted to see nestled beneath her layers of artificial courage.

"_Oh?"_

His voice was a high-pitched, mocking sneer. Before Rachel could register what was happening, she felt a sharp stab of pain in her side, thin metal tearing through the thick fabric of her coat and into bare skin. A sudden cry from her lips as the Joker's bladed shoe dug its way into her side, the metal piercing at her nerves, slicing into flesh and pulling out almost immediately, the flow of dark blood against the ground immense and vast like a miniature river. Rachel struggled to curl into a ball, her face twisted momentarily in a mere reaction to the pain, yet her face still savage and determined as ever.

''Do I scare you _now, _my little _Raaa-_chel?! Does it scare you to know you can _buh-_leed, without the _Bat_ always sweeping you away to _safe-_ty?!"

The D.A. was still rigid on the floor, her lips pressed tightly, her nerves screaming at her to _use the gun, use the goddamned gun—_yet her body felt like ice, protesting against her mind, and all she could do was lie still, still and docile and _unyielding._

The sight of the blood against the ground, _her _blood, curiously thick and dark—almost black in the dimness surrounding them—shot adrenaline through her body. She pressed a hand against the torn fabric of her coat and sweater, fingers plastered against the sticky wound at her side. Rachel found herself running a finger across the wetness two, three times, morbidly fascinated by the red and black smears on her fingertips, that never seemed to stop flowing, endlessly…

Her train of thought was interrupted by another swift kick to her shoulder. With another cry, she practically flew against the ground, gripping onto the sticky wetness that slipped down her shoulder blade, pooled into the fabric of her coat and stuck in thick droplets against the dust-caked ground. She was rolling back and forth, heat and cold blood pulsing through her body, her head throbbing, her vision doubling as the white head became two heads looming above her, the smile mirrored on either side of her…she had two wounds, four wounds, six wounds, and no matter how much she pressed her hand against them, no matter how much she smothered them, they would always come back, tearing open, the blood flooding out…and it was bound to happen again and again.

The pistol was lead in her pocket, and her fingers twitched as if to reach for it; yet her mind was numb, screaming _no no no, you think that would actually help? It would just be knocked from your hands, you wouldn't be able to fire it, like every other time you've _tried, _it's pointless, you can't even _move—

The next blow to her hip sent her rolling across the cold ground, red and black streaks of liquid spraying in thick trails against the floor. Her raw wounded skin stuck against the cold metal, the pain becoming a warm fuzz throughout her entire body. Rachel couldn't make sense of the strange feeling that filled her; something _euphoric,_ something dizzying—blood loss, adrenaline, _ecstasy._

The sound of a low growl echoed above her, something dark and feral entity about to rip into her. He was worse than the dogs, worse than the human killers she had worked to prosecute; he was a _beast,_ a _monster,_ and he was going to tear her apart, limb from limb, because she wasn't capable of showing any _fear._ Because she was motionless, because she was still as stone, she would die like a rodent, squashed by Satan himself.

"Who's going to help you _now,_ now that Batsy's _laaaa-_te?! He let you down _once,_ he's doing it a-_gain._ Even the rat with _wings_ thinks you're just a piece of _trash_ now, just a _craaa-_zy little girl who deserves to be _killed_!"

She was disposable.

A soft whimper left her lips as she realized it.

She was lying wounded beneath the Joker's steely gaze, from mere seconds of being beaten with his weaponry, feeble and weak and _pathetic_. Batman wasn't going to save her this time, and then what could she possibly _do?_

All her struggling against the Joker, all her determination to destroy him first, her growing hatred for the man who had ruined her _life, _had destroyed Harvey, destroyed Bruce, destroyed _herself…_

All the running.

From _everything;_ all her _life…_running, hiding, always so _scared, _always so _powerless. _She could have the pistol in her jacket, she could be in an army tank, she could be surrounded by superheroes and Batman holding her tightly to his side…but she would still be _weak. _Still so _vulnerable, _so easily broken, so easily _dead…_

A giggle from her lips; soft and slow, like a stuttering breath. The Joker was hovering above her, his tall, slouched body casting a shadow over her pale, blood-soaked frame. For a moment she fell completely silent; and then, when the numbing quiet continued all about her, when she heard no response at all from the man who was so close to finally _ending _it, to finally ending _all _of it, her giggle became a throaty chuckle, so deep and grievous her chest ached with dull pain. She rolled over, half of her face caked with the fresh blood beneath her, her eyes staring upwards through the blank white face above and up, up through the rafters, up through the sky, into the oblivion that they would all succumb to in the end, bleeding and broken and humiliated after endless years of _running running running_ with nowhere to end up but where they were always running _from._

It was all a joke, and this was the ultimate punch line.

Her life was _worthless._

And as she realized it, her chuckle became a series of roaring, hysterical laughter, the twitching movement of her body causing the freshly torn wounds to reopen, blood splattering and falling around her like a black halo.

The pale face focused and refocused before her, a series of blurry colors of red and white and black, and she couldn't make out his expression even if she _tried._ It was as if she were on a drug, the high induced from the pulsing in her body, the curious pain and the ultimate revelation of how _meaningless _it all really was. Her chest heaved with the laughter that never seemed to end, tears trickling down her blood-stained face, entire body aching with the exertion of her hysterical amusement. If she kept this up, lying here and _laughing_, she would die—but why did it matter, what did _anything_ ever _matter?_

After what were hours, minutes—_seconds?—_she was lifted into the air, the feeling dizzying and nearly knocking her into unconsciousness, her body wet and ragged from blood, sweat, and tears of the laughter that still wheezed from her cracked, dry lips. Her killer's pale face leered at her, a kaleidoscope of colors, and she felt herself dropped rather roughly onto the ground some distance away from where she was, though she couldn't think of _exactly _where. The smell of blood and asphalt and onions filled her nostrils, fingers caked with grime, the sound of her own laughter drowning out anything else around her.

She wondered, for a brief sane moment, if this is what Harvey had seen in her when he was alive. What he had been trying to keep at bay; what he had restrained whenever they made love, whenever she was frustrated over a lost case, whenever they came upon a crime scene, a gruesome sight, a battered body…

She wasn't afraid when the darkness began to overwhelm her, to seep into her from the outside, to invade her eyelids and the open wounds on her body. It felt comfortable, like a friend she had denied all these years; a forgotten part of her. And as her laughter suddenly dwindled, something within her seemed to stir, and for once, as her mind pulled her under, she felt at peace.


	17. Seventeen: Fireworks

AN: Here we are. This is…the final chapter. Well, I have an epilogue after this, except it is extremely short (meaning a few paragraphs). I am both overwhelmed and incredibly sad that this is the last chapter. I stayed up all night this particular night (it is currently 6:26 AM) on a whim to write this, because I didn't want to go any longer without finishing the story up for you lovely amazing readers…and for myself as well. I wrote the epilogue almost a year ago, so you can't imagine my excitement when it came to finishing this chapter…

But wow, it's been a year writing this (filled with months of absences..sorry about that.) I hope you all enjoy this chapter, and I hope it's as good as the last have been. Just to make some things clear: I mention a baterang later on, and I guess that's the name of Batman's weapon he uses that resembles a boomerang but is much more lethal and bat-shaped. If not…my apologies  Also, I tried to follow the bare bones of the final scene of the Dark Knight with this last chapter, but I obviously took (many) creative liberties in making it Joker/Rachel-centric and whatnot. If you don't remember from the movie, during this scene Batman has radar/phone-vision and so he can see things with this odd blue static instead of actual visuals, so I tried to incorporate that too, just so people don't read it and wonder what I'm talking about. Also…some people may despise me for the ending & the subsequent epilogue, but it's what I always envisioned this 'fic ending like, so I love you despite your possible hatred of me 

Thank you all so much for reading & the kind words and encouragement. I couldn't have finished this fanfic without you all. You are AMAZING. The epilogue will be up in a day or two…maybe even later today.

Love,

Xxnadsxx.

* * *

**Dark Humor**

**Seventeen**

"What doesn't kill you...only makes you _stranger."_

_--The Joker_

_

* * *

  
_

Tonight would be a _celebration._

He pranced about the floor, kicking legs up in the air and humming merrily in anxious anticipation for his _much_ needed guest to arrive. Rather _late,_ the Batsy boy was, but if he insisted he may just have to crash his party in the middle of the…_fireworks._ A delicious glee filled his body, prickling head to toe, a chuckle rising from scarred lips. The whimpers of his captives all about the building only empowered him, filled his entire being with lust, strength, energy. He could see the ferries from his position in the building, yet pressed a blood-stained glove against his forehead to mimic a captain gazing from the bow of some great ship to faraway seas. They were glowing, practically _sparkling _in all the delicious _**chaos**_within. His heart pumped rapidly in tandem with what he could giddily imagine to be the hearts of the civilians, the prisoners, all struggling to make that _seemingly_ difficult choice of killing the other to survive or retaining their humanity in death.

When all the cards were dealt, sometimes you had to cheat your way through to win. No one wanted the _Joker, _to make them lose the game they so feebly played with all their pathetic little chips. A groan from behind brought his attention elsewhere; agitation filled his brain, his rushing thoughts brought to a momentary halt, a twitch in his eye. His little _Rachel _was moaning, perhaps coming to, _or three or four, if her mind were in such tiny little __**pieces**__—!_ He imagined her lying in the discarded heap he had left her in, soaked entirely with beautiful _blood,_ the color red oh-so-flattering for her pale, corpse-like frame. Sheer _beauty,_ the way her supple little body was so deliciously cut, like prime meat slashed across the skin, waiting to be devoured raw. Pity she wasn't awake to _celebrate,_ but he rather liked the sight of her defeated, subdued, a corpse with the tiniest bit of air still inside of her, the heart slashed open over time yet still beating…if not much, _much _slower.

But the _laughter._ What lovely music to play in the background of his _genius!_ Though not as lovely as _his own,_ it was quite the pleasant surprise, along with the tastiness of her blood, bitter and dry against his knife. As he thought, he pressed the knife to his tongue, savoring the dried blood that lumped against it, eyes rolling to the back of his head, lids blinking in undiluted bliss. How lovely indeed it was to taste the blood of one so restrained, so protected, so _ferocious_; to have the liquid running free like a fountain, to have him prance and lick and _fuck_ so ecstatically and freely, to ravage and violate and _**destroy.**_

Such things were what fed his insatiable appetite. And as he smacked scarred lips against the other, twirling the knife in his hand, he wondered faintly if the girl were to survive long enough for him to have a longer…_taste._

A dog barked. His little puppies, chained to a column. He snarled and barked in response, speaking to them in a language only beasts and _he_ could understand, as were the words of the inhuman, the _chaotic. _He was snarling, on his purple knees, pushing bloodied hands forward 'til he was on all fours, snapping his scarred white jaw and crawling forwards, closer, closer towards the dogs that barked and drooled and howled. For a moment, as he came so close he could feel their uneven, rampant breath against his cheeks, they tensed and silenced, as if appraising him. Three of the dogs merely glared at him with vicious, yet subdued eyes. A curious dog in the center, more furious than the others, barked once. His smile twisted upwards as it barked again—a warning, perhaps—and, ever _so_ curious; the Joker merely craned his head to the side, watching it silently.

Finally, it leapt forward and sank its teeth into the Joker's cheek, gnawing through scar tissue. At first the Joker yelped, yet it was a yelp of _ecstasy,_ as the dead and living nerves of scar tissue and raw skin set aflame, as the blood gushed from his suddenly all-too-open wounds, as he felt so undeniably _alive alive __**alive**_and the viciousness of the creature with its teeth inside of him made his blood boil, his pants tighten, his fists clench. Such ferocity, such sheer _power; _he craved it, he needed it, he alone wanted to _possess _it. _Mine, mine __**mine mine mine,**__you can't have it you little bitch, you can be strong and _cha_-otic but you can't overcome me, that power is __**mine, **__for I rule you, I have something you don't have, and that's __**insanity—**_

As soon as the dog released its jaws from the Joker's blood-soaked face, he tore forward in retaliation, his bare human teeth digging straight into the dog's throat. It seemed to pierce deeper even than the dog's sharpened maw, his canines digging into the jugular vein, the dog screaming and whimpering and scrabbling its feet desperately as his teeth sank deeper and deeper into the skin, the frantic beating of a heart against his mouth, blood spurting in thick currents against his chalk-white face. In an instant, he pulled himself away, taking the dog's throat along with him in a bloody spray that engulfed the other dogs' silent faces and covered the perimeter in slippery, slick redness. The skin that hung from the Joker's teeth fell in a mangled mass before the three dogs, and he chuckled silently before licking at the blood around his mouth and cheek.

"_Dig _in, boys!" He announced in a merry squawk to the canines before him, who had already begun to feast on the skin lying against the ground, lapping up the blood as if it were the most delicious thing they had ever tasted.

He turned away in fading interest as he imagined the dog's corpse to be devoured in the next few minutes; _predictable._ For as _animals_ did, so did _humans._ Yet they had those oh-so-_pesky_ laws and _regulations_ to get in the way of all the _fun._

And as the thought of the fun being spoiled crossed the Joker's mind, a flash of grit teeth and a fluttering black cape against the pitch sky made him _croon_ in both ecstasy and frustration. Batsy-boy was here, all right; yet he _may_ have a fighting chance of stopping the party…and that would be _most_ unfortunate.

Another groan behind him, as if on queue.

Scarred and bloodied mouth curled into a satisfied leer as the plan began to formulate within his mind. He saw his pretty little _corpse _lying behind him in his head, Batsy's horrified face…yes, _this_ was going to be on helluva final _act_ to remember.

One of them would go down in fireworks by the time the night ended, and he highly doubted it would be _himself._

*

_Think. _

Ras Al Ghoul's voice filled his mind, an echo of a distant memory. Back when he was a child, back when he was filled with rage and self-loathing, the feeling all-but subdued until _now,_ come alive in violent torrents that threatened to tear his mind apart as he flew through the streets at break-neck speed. Visions of him training, his sword clenched in hand, his body tensed, nothing but the blood lust and the anger and the need for _power_, the need to _control_ filling him, a point past the adrenaline, of mental confusion akin to insanity.

_Don't just attack me like some crazed fiend. Think! Plan your battle; conquer your rage!_

The streets passed in a blur; eyes narrowed, adrenaline pumping, the building loomed before him like a silver knife cutting through the darkness. His vision was blue-tinted and static, the objects before him nearly indiscernible shapes save for the rough geometric pattern of their frames, the static nothing more than a hum against the mental rage within him. The faint shriek of police sirens began to take part in the crescendo of noise and panic, tailing his trail, while he willed the voice in his mind to continue;

_Think. Calm yourself. Think._

Batman's composure was still held; his eyes narrowed, mind fixed upon the mission. Yet as he neared the half-finished doors of the massive building, bile rose in his throat; his jaw clenched. The vigilante's fist slammed upon a button against the handle of his bike and he was thrown into the air, cape ruffling, arms spread, wind whipping at his thick suit as he flew into the sky and descended upon the ledge of an unknown floor.

He would work his way up. Static crackled against his helmet, the blue light of his cell phone sensor casting a pallid glow upon the area. Shapes surrounded him and his body tensed; he reached for the nearest weapon at his side and paused at the sounds of…_whimpering? _ The sounds of sirens ceasing caused his head to turn slightly; they were going to send the police force up to his level, and he had very little time to act. He cursed beneath his helmet and went back to examine the strange scene before him; clown-masked criminals, their guns pointed to hostages tied all around him.

_Clowns._

The masks caused something within him to stir; something to gnaw at his nerves, setting them completely aflame. In an instant his baterang shot through the air, cutting through the nearest mask and causing the man behind it to emit a series of panicked groans, falling to his knees. His fist landed in the man's stomach, and he fell limply to the ground without so much as a struggle. Another clown went down immediately after as he kicked at his ankles and punched him square in his masked face. He fell just as the other clown had; limp, groaning, while the hostages sat silently without a word, without a struggle…

Something was amiss; something was…

"Batman! My men are arriving on your floor! We'll take it from here!"

Gordon's voice on a loudspeaker; he cursed and grabbed the nearest fallen clown, flipped him over, unmasked him.

A pair of terrified, bulging eyes stared back at him, the man's groans made soft little whimpering noises by the thick layers of duct tape against his mouth. An almost inhuman snarl rumbled from Batman's lips as he tore the mask from the other clown's head, found a sobbing, half-conscious woman beneath it. Casting his gaze around the entire perimeter, at least 10 more hostages struggled beneath their masks, the actual clowns leering at him from their positions against columns. His stomach twisted as gunshots rang below; how many people had they already _killed?_

"_Fox,_" He hissed into the mic attached to his helmet, felt his assistant poised and ready to take instructions, "The clowns are ploys; they're the real hostages! The Joker set us up, we have to stop the police!"

"Right. We'll have to slow them down. I'll cover you."

He nodded, as if to himself, and the first wave of policemen ran up the stairs, their feet frantic and shuffling, their guns poised. Batman didn't know whether it was the careful planning his former mentor had always encouraged or pure mad, berserk rage, but as he made a mad dash for the heavily armored team before him, his fists acted of their own accord and rammed into the first set of policemen's faces. They fell backwards without a struggle, shots ringing into the ceiling. A spray of gunfire whizzed through the air like horizontal rain, bullets thudding hollowly against his armor. The wire of his grappling gun shot forward as he pushed himself backwards and shielded his face with his arm from the gunfire. The wire wrapped around the nearest column, vaulting back like a boomerang on the other end, spreading lightning-quick to wrap around the ankles of the shooting men. They let out astonished cries as it wrapped a second time around the column and spread in a thick line, entangling their bodies and dragging them across the ground to dangle from the ledge like toys.

Even from this height, he could hear Gordon's confused shout. There would be more and more waves of policemen; he didn't know what to _do,_ except hurry and take advantage of what little precious time he had between the oncoming onslaughts. Propelling his body forward, Batman flew through floor after floor, pulling the masks from the clowned men's faces, shoving kicks and punches into impostor hostages, his face slicked with sweat and tension beneath the helmet that weighed upon him like lead.

"To your left!"

Fox's voice rang through his helmet; in an instant his baterang collided with a raised gun; the SWAT officer yelped and clutched to his bleeding hand as a punch to his stomach knocked the air from his system and a sidekick sent him sprawling to the ground. More figures ran forward, more shots splayed through the air, a swift kick sending another gun flying, a quick wince and shudder of pain as a stray bullet managed to work its way through thick armor into his back. He spun on his feet and sent another closed fist straight into a man's face, the impact throwing him backwards against rows of others. They were dazed enough for him to run up the next flight; he counted, prayed, _needed _them to realize the masked men the hostages, standing naked and vulnerable before their weapons.

_How many people are you going to let die because of you?_

A pang of guilt was washed away with adrenaline; he ignored the voice in his head, willed it to die and _burn,_ concentrated only on the mission, the necessary. _The Joker._

He had to find him. Had to subdue him. Then, and only then, could he stop the bastard from destroying what remained of Gotham city. Then and only then could he stop him from killing the people on the ferries—

Then and only then could he sleep at night.

A voice crackled through his head as he made his way to the highest floor; he paused for a moment,

"Fox?"

"I managed to get a hold of Gordon. His squad found something amiss with the hostages; you're good to go."

"Good. Now I can take care of what needs to be done to stop all this."

"Bruce?"

A pause, silent and tense. Batman hadn't heard his name uttered in a very long time, had almost failed to recognize it.

"Yes?"

Fox seemed to pause and take a slow breath before continuing,

"Don't let him kill you…any part of you."

It was Batman's turn to pause. Yet before he could register the full meaning of Fox's words, he heard a low, perverse cackle from what seemed to be nearby yet echo all about him at once. _So close…where are you hiding, you son of a bitch?_

A _click._ Fox was off the line, and Batman was searching.

Hunting.

The geometric shapes before him nearly confused him; columns, ledges, debris and rubble, half the floor in unfinished rafters, the other exposed to the cold black sky. He turned around several times, struggling to catch where the cackling came from, all the while alert and tense, poised on haunches like a predator waiting to strike. A chuckle again; he whipped around, caught sight of the slightly hunched figure of the Joker before him, several feet away. His sinister leer was a contorted shape of jagged lines against his face, white lines outlining his body like a wraith.

"Oh, _Batsy! _How wonderful of you to _come!_ And boy, you didn't disappoint _one_ bit. You let lots of people down there _die,_ and you even held out farrrrr _too looo_-ng for your little _Raaaa-_chel!"

The Joker made a scolding "tsk" noise, wagging a blood-soaked finger back and forth, a disappointed sigh reverberating along his lips like a song. Batman's insides churned as if every organ in his body were being clenched into a fist. Sweat prickled along his nape, yet all that registered upon his face was rage. His lip curled and his fingers dug into gloved hands,

"where is she, Joker? Your games end now!"

A half-hearted shrug from the madman, and he gave him a look of what almost seemed to be genuine disappointment,

"oooh, my darling _Bat_, let's not get ahead of ourselves now! I have a few more games to play before you _insist_ on being the party _poo_-per. I have a few friends that would be _dyingggg_ to meet you—!"

Batman's mouth opened to retaliate, yet nothing more than a cry of shock and sudden pain could be heard as the snarling of hungry dogs tore the air like an open wound. He had no time to react as the first two massive forms lunged at him, snapping jaws and beady blood-shot eyes bearing down upon him. He fell to the ground, shielding his face with an arm that was rendered useless as a pair of sharp jaws sank into the limb, penetrating the armor and sending sheer pain through his entire system. He struggled to shake them off but another dog was on its way, snarling as it bit into his stomach, the other mauling his shoulder—with a frenzied cry the grappling gun flew into the hungry eyes of the dog assaulting his arm, drawing a line of blood across its whimpering face. His freed arm unleashed a baterang straight into the dog's head at his shoulder, it too falling away in a whimpering mass. He kicked and punched ferociously at the dog at his side, and it fell backwards clumsily, leaving him precious seconds to kick at the fallen animals, one dog flying off the staircase, another struggling by biting onto his heel, causing him to push a button quickly and unleash a jagged projectile from his arm, sinking into its side like a knife. He kicked it roughly down the staircase, the final dog vaulting for him. Swiftly he jumped in the other direction as the canine leaped for him, and it missed him within an inch of its snarling maw, hitting its head against the edge of the gap between stairs and floor, falling backwards and leaving a slick trail of blood from the impact.

His body heaved with effort as he pulled himself to his feet, patches of his armor torn to reveal the blood-caked skin beneath. Batman's breath was ragged yet heavy with determination as he stumbled forward, hand grazing the wet, bloodied gash on his side.

"You can't win, Joker," he rasped, his eyes parallel to the Joker's burning gaze, "I'm going to show you that Gotham and its people don't go down so easily."

A white brow furrowed; the Joker giggled in response, cocked a head in his usual childish demeanor. Batman could read him, now, the way he moved so confidently, a mockery of childish curiosity as he pretended to be confused at Batman's words. There was something hidden beneath his eyes, something sinister in the dull black spark; his throat tightened at the thought of what could cause him such dark _joy._

"is that so, _Bat_-sy? Because not many people really _act_ the way you claim. Not even _yourself._"

Before he could speak, the Joker raised a hand quickly. At first it seemed as if it were to silence him, but he followed the flick of his gloved wrist and realized he was _gesturing_ to something beyond Batman's line of vision. He saw it then; something dangling off the building, as if from a very thin, fragile wire; then, as the confused white lines of his vision came together, he realized it was in the shape of…a person. A figure, small and frail, hanging from a cable…wrists tied to the ends. The feet dangled free within the air, as well as the rest of the body, as if a single poke or pressure would be enough to break the restraints and make the person plummet, hundreds of feet, into the ground below.

Sparks were at the end of the cable; something glowing. It took a moment for him to register the scene, but upon realizing his skin crawled and he began to run blindly forward.

"Nuh-uh-_uhhh!_ _Not_ if you want her to blow up into _tinyyyy _little _pieces!_"

He froze; logic made him stop, yet every other fabric in his being urged him forward, made him want to run and scoop up the woman dangling from the building into his arms, run far, far away from the bastard that was so close to killing her and forget the past few crazed days that they had all suffered so much.

_Rachel._

"What are you doing to her, you sick _bastard?!"_

He couldn't control the rage any longer; it boiled within him, emulsifying his blood into frothing acid, making his lip curl. He could break this man's neck so easily, could tear him limb from limb with a few simple strokes of his baterang, and all would be well; no more Joker plaguing the streets and killing innocents, blowing up hundreds, blowing up _Rachel._ No more pain, no more guilt, no more sleepless nights…peace, quiet.

_But if I touch him I fall to his level._

The madman seemed aware of the interior battle in Batman's mind; he pranced about him in a half-circle, giggling and making motions with his hand like a vocal mime,

"Ya see, _Batsy_ m'boy, I'm not _all_ that bad! I'm willing to…_com-_prom-_ise,_ in my own little way."

His lips curled back from his teeth in an excited, near-perverse smile; the yellowing teeth were stained with trace remains of blood and decay, his lips scabbed and cracked along the puffy scar tissue. He appeared carnivorous, and Batman was sure he would do no less than spill as much blood as possible, if only to feed on his pain.

"I _want _Gotham to go down in _fire-works_ tonight," he hissed in a low voice, the word 'fireworks' emphasized with a savage relish, "and I'm going to _get_ them, whether it's the lo-_vuh_-ly people sailing on their ferries or our _dar-_ling little D.A.! And _you_ are the one to choose!"

Batman's entire frame stilled; he was completely silent, save for the rapid breaths beneath his mask. The Joker was giving him a _choice_ between the murder of hundreds of civilians, or the murder of the woman he loved. Either way would kill him inside, cripple him irreparably; and the bastard _knew_ that. He gazed at the frail, vulnerable body hanging from the wire, at her closed eyes and bloodied face, a gruesome premonition to things to come if he did not _think_ of a possible way out of this predicament.

_I lost you too many times to lose you again, Rachel._

And yet the people on the boat…

Frustrated, a bestial growl tore from Batman's lips and he threw his fist straight into the Joker's cheek. The Joker yelped and howled with laughter from the impact, flying to the ground, blood spraying the air in thick red droplets to stain the floor. Batman was kicking thoughtlessly at his stomach, endless cackles and ecstatic whoops and howls on replay from the Joker's lips, his mouth stretching so wide for a sadistic moment he was sure the clown prince's scars would reopen and he would choke on his own blood.

"That's it, _Batsy _! Hit me, _hurt me, _make me _buh_-leed, don't stop, I'm so _close…!_"

His perverse words caused Batman to sneer and growl at the cackling man beneath him, whose white-painted face was now nearly half-streaked with dark drying liquid.

_Simply attacking does nothing. Think! Act! _

Rachel's body was swaying before him on a cord, hundreds of feet above the air. If he touched her, the explosives would go off, and her body would almost literally implode in showers of blood and flesh and organs.

He kicked again, harder this time, his boot connecting with the Joker's jaw. The Joker's teeth chattered in response and a near-pained yowl tore through the air as he bit his tongue. Just a few swift blows to his vitals and he would be _so close,_ _but then what would happen to Rachel? How could you get her out? How could you stop the ferries? He must have a device—a detonating device, for the boats at least. But how do I help Rachel?!_

He stopped kicking, as the green-haired clown beneath him spat out a shower of blood. His chest heaved and to his surprise the Joker did not bother to fight back, not _yet._ The mental attack was his arsenal, the almost literal pain budding in Batman's mind at the thought of making an actual choice.

_Again…just like when Harvey was alive. And that tore us apart. This will simply end it. End _her.

"Time…is _tick-_ing!" The Joker sang from underneath him in an enthusiastic wheeze, and Batman suddenly drew attention to the watch attached to his arm.

Ten minutes.

He had ten minutes to make his choice.

"_Tick-_tock, _tick-_tock, _tiiiick-_tock!" The bastard was chanting beneath him, his eyes round and wide like a child anticipating New Year's Eve.

Batman did all that he could do; he grabbed the Joker by his collar and hoisted him up against a column, eye-to-eye with the leering clown. Of course the Joker showed no fear in the least; instead there was a strange excitement in his eyes, a near-hunger, and he ran a long tongue over blood-caked lips in anticipation for Batman's next blow.

"If Rachel dies, Joker, you will be in a world of _pain."_

His insult rang hollow, falling upon deaf ears; they _both_ knew he had nothing to back up his words. Batman's snarl appeared absolutely _comical_ to the man he was grabbing hold of, who let forth another peal of laughter, spraying blood at Batman's chin,

"Oh and _what_ would that world entail? I told you _before, _you have _nothing_ to threaten me with! Now, if you're _going_ to let those people on the ferry die, I'll have to let you know…Rachel's, ah, ex-_plo-_sives? They're wires that only _I_ can disconnect, or…well…I guess _she_ could, since the other device is located somewhere, ah, um…_on_ her. But if ya touch the cable around her... she'll just go _ka-BOOM!"_

The chuckle was reduced to spasms as Batman banged the back of the Joker's head several times against the column, causing him to wince in what would have been pain save for the yelps of near-sexual pleasure from his scarred mouth.

"I'm going to help her, Joker. Your game will end…mark my _words._"

He was so close to the madman he could feel the decaying rot of his breath against his nostrils. At first the Joker began to roll his eyes, then let out a screeching cry of delight. Stunned, Batman fell backwards as pain bloomed against his leg. The Joker laughed and hopped forwards as Batman struggled to regain his footing, flaunting the long blade hidden in his shoe,

"Works _every_ time! Getting a little _thick_ there, _Bat_!"

Chuckling, he dove forward again, slicing at Batman's chest with the blade. Batman grabbed hold of the blade as it struck forth again, his hands digging into its sides while the Joker struggled to push it forward, dangerously close to the vigilante's throat. With all his strength he pulled upwards, causing the Joker's leg to give, and threw him back against the ground, hurrying to pull himself to his feet while the Joker was on the floor. Almost as quickly he rebounded in a blur of purple and green, grabbing a crowbar and beating at Batman with berserk speed. Batman fell backwards again, his body refusing to respond to his frantic mind, _ten minutes, move, get up, come _on, while the Joker cackled with glee and allowed the crowbar to smash at his helmet, fresh bruises appearing on his jaw where he struck away.

Try as Batman might, he began to weaken; yet he managed to cover his face with his arm, gazing at Rachel's hanging, limp form from the corner of his eye.

_It's not going to end like this. It can't end like this. I won't let it. I won't let him win._

He saw her as if in a hallucination; the girl in pigtails, the smiling D.A. assistant, the strong-willed woman…the girl tied to explosives, wide-eyed and terrified, the girl sitting in a chair of her wrecked apartment, her expression lost and broken, the girl hanging before him on a wire, so close to snapping, so close to being lost forever…

A sliver of strength filled his muscles, and he cried out as he grabbed hold of the crowbar that had been battering at his head, throwing it aside from the Joker's grip. His kohl-rimmed eyes widened slightly as Batman shot a razor from his arm, straight for his face. He howled in masochistic glee as he fell backwards, giggling uncontrollably, grabbing onto the razor that had sunken into his cheek as Batman pulled himself forward.

_5 minutes._

Blood pooled from the Joker's cheek as, overtaken with fits of laughter, he pulled the razor agonizingly slowly from his skin, seeming to savor every pinprick of nerves from his body. Batman was hovering over him, his dark form a menacing shadow over the Joker's subdued frame. A square hulk of metal with a large button lay near his body, having fallen from his coat.

_The detonator._

He had five minutes.

_Rachel._

He was too numb to acknowledge the tear that coursed down his cheek. Too numb for any of it.

Walking out slowly toward the ferries that floated still in the water as if awaiting death, he flung the object into the ocean.

There were no fireworks.

*

Laughter.

It filled her mind, made her ears ache. She felt as if her body were swelling, overwhelmed; she felt faint, as if she were _flying._ If anything, she wasn't on ground—but whether she was hallucinating or not, she didn't know. Nor did she seem to care. Eyes fluttered open; she felt curiously awake, no trace of fatigue, as if she had awakened from a very deep, satisfying slumber. Yet the laughter wouldn't _stop._ It came from what sounded like far away, though she knew it couldn't be possible, because the edges of _wherever_ she was seemed to reverberate with it.

Her eyes scanned the darkness around her. Pinpricks of light in the sky, the open air chilling her to her bones. She was hanging, somehow—was it a _cable_ that was holding her? –and she was facing a scene soaked with blood. Blood covered the ground in slick, dark puddles, dried between cracks of debris, covered the two figures who were before her. One was dressed in black, one in purple. One stood, stone silent, his eyes solemn and crestfallen behind the mask, one lying upon the ground, caught within the most hysterical fit of near-contagious laughter.

Something tickled at her throat at the sight. Something about the scene before her made her very bones ache with hatred. She couldn't remember at the moment; couldn't register anything but her struggling to loosen the cable around her wrists, her bare feet as they swung forward to touch against the cold, solid ledge. She struggled to make sense of what was going on, but her mind seemed surrounded in a thick haze—then a lump of something solid weighed against her pocket, and her fingers stroked the edge of a pistol at her side.

The cable lay ominously behind her—memories flooded, overwhelming her.

Lying against a chair, tied with thick rope, digging at her skin. Her body, cold and clammy against the night sky, bared like an offering at the top of a warehouse. Countless barrels of oil before her, surrounding her, like black epitaphs of what was to come. Screaming to a man on the phone, hysterical, telling her how much she loved him, the panic in her voice, the biting panic and fear and the awful horror of knowing she was not the one to be saved, that he was going to _abandon _ her, let her die to save Harvey instead, she was worthless and she had no use to him and she was going to _die,_ die right there, and what was the point of life _anyway_ if she could die so easily?

"_No!"_ She had screamed, cried, thrashed as Batman had pulled her away, away from the barrels of oil, away from the fire that had begun and threatened to scorch and devour them. She was struggling to pull herself _into_ the fire, to kill herself, because there had been _nothing_ to live for, nothing after Harvey, since all that was left was decay, since she had died inside even if she had not exploded into bits and pieces, and she knew then all she could do was rot and die away…

'_It's _crazy_ business, the way you people work, thinking you can lock away every corrupted person in Gotham when we're all corrupted, even the people you trust the most, when even your little Batman turns his tail on you after finally seeing you as what you __are,__ and that's _bait—_'_

The soft pitter-patter of her feet was almost mute as she made her way, with her feeble strength and quivering frame, across the cold ground. Her bare feet touched the wet blood upon the floor, dipped within it, milk white against crimson. The laughter had stopped; the Joker lay there, silently, watching her from the corner of his eye, knowing she was there all along, knowing _everything._ Batman's eyes went to the cable, as if bidding a silent farewell—then he turned, his gaze widening to an unreadable expression as he took in the sight of the girl who stood still before him and the madman still sprawled against the ground, her chest heaving, her body battered and stained with dried blood.

"Rachel."

His voice was a mere whisper, so soft it was almost drowned by her heavy breaths. A realization seemed to overtake him; he stared at the Joker, his gaze hard, his voice clipped,

"You lied. There were no explosives. You wanted me to abandon…"

"This ends now."

She spoke, but she couldn't feel it; the words fell from her dry, cracked lips, her throat tingling with the effort. Her voice was strong, determined; hell-bent. As Batman registered her words, he raised his hands, shaking his head furiously,

"No. Rachel. You can't."

Her fingers gripped the pistol in her pocket, held it with more strength than she had ever held the weapon in her entire life. Her hands did not shake; she aimed it precisely, toying with it, going from the Joker's head, to the amused grin upon his white face, his heart, his stomach…

"Rachel! Stop!"

Batman's voice was a panicked cry, so loud and frantic she could almost feel the ground shake. She shook her head, and turned the pistol to her intended target. The Joker tore the tense air with a loud, rapturous cackle.

Bruce watched in horror as she pointed the gun straight at his own forehead.

"No."

She pulled the trigger.


	18. Epilogue: Alive

Author's Note: I can't believe this is over...I'm very sad. Here is the epilogue I've written a very long time ago, for your viewing pleasure. I've probably lost so many readers in my months-long hiatus but again, thank you SO much to everyone who stuck with me, and all the wonderful reviews I've received recently. I'm so glad you enjoyed this 'fic as much as I enjoyed writing it. I'm really in love with the outcome of it...I don't want it to end. I'm even toying with the thought of a sequel, but who knows? I need to continue the other 'fic I started while writing this one, "Don't Fear the Reaper." But enough of my talking...here is the very short epilogue toanswer the cliffhanger in the last chapter. :)

Love,

xxnadsxx.

* * *

**Dark Humor**

**Epilogue**

_"_What doesn't kill you, only makes you..._stranger."_

_--_The Joker

* * *

She woke up breathless, a gust of air caught midway between her lips as her dreams subsided into reality. Almost mechanically, she pulled her aching body from the mattress and pushed aside the blood-soaked sheets with careless abandon. The TV was a blinding static light, a pinpoint against the otherwise pitch darkness—yet she didn't really mind it, gliding across the barely visible room as if it were a part of her.

The TV crackled before adjusting its shaking picture onto the desired channel. She could overhear the news anchor speaking as she felt her way towards the bathroom, hysterical laughter booming from somewhere along her bed where she had just awakened.

"_Batman:_ _Dead or alive?"_ The caption rang along her ears. Her stomach twisted to the point of nausea as she fumbled for the light switch.

_Batman._

He was alive, of course; he never really _died._ He was probably patching himself up right now, resting and recuperating in his sniveling little hovel somewhere. He would be back, stalking the streets of Gotham once again, hunted by police who needed a scapegoat for the former D.A.'s apparent murder. Batman wasn't a _human,_ not like _them._ He was a _symbol_ of something fabricated and fanciful. Hence: the wings, the cowl, the persistence.

She was human in all her primal urges.

She was more human than she had ever felt in her entire life.

With a sigh, she found the switch, flipped it upwards. The light fell in harsh blinding fluorescence across her body, highlighting every angle, every curve. A stranger stared into the mirror before her—naked, bloody, scarred, dark hair a mess around a makeup-smeared face. Who was the girl looking back at her? She didn't know who it was, yet it was _staring_ at her, staring through the mirror, _posing_ as her. She wanted to find her pistol, shoot the glass away until she found her true self staring back.

Then, as she gazed down at the countertop, a stroke of genius hit her.

She could hear his chuckling at her bedside—he drank in the broken pictures that glazed the broken television, in shades of red and war and blood and death. It was hilarious, how people still _fought_ for a noble cause, when all the world knew it was only a front to give into the lust for the kill. Blood masked as nobility; as _justice._

What the hell was justice?

She didn't know what it was. Didn't even _care_ for it. Maybe the girl in the mirror did, her eyes wild and her hair disheveled like a beast. Maybe _she_ did, still straining to be so civilized in all her naked, bloodied glory, despite the fact that you could never _really_ be civilized, not underneath the fabrications of human culture and restraint, where your heart lay, where your blood ached to spill free.

She knew better than that.

And as she raised the razor to her pretty pristine face, she knew it was better to be scarred and destroyed and _free_ than that creature staring at her through the mirror.

She cut precisely, in long, agonizing strokes, relishing the hot fluid that seeped in her mouth, that dribbled down her chin and along her throat, her nerves tickling and her red lips and the tearing muscles of her skin and cheeks raising upwards in a giggle at the agonizing _pain,_ at the feeling that each stroke, each deeper cut was setting something _free_ within her, something genuine that stung at her nerves as she swallowed blood and laughter and watched the girl staring back at her laugh and laugh and _laugh_ as her mouth, chin, cheeks, became stained in sticky, hot, _delicious_ red—

The razor clattered to the floor, and the girl staring at herself finally saw _Rachel,_ with her Glasgow grin dribbling blood across her burning cheeks and throat.

And for once she felt _alive_.

She smiled at herself. She would always _smile._ And, with a flourish, feeling pretty as she licked stray droplets of blood from her fingers, she skipped across the bed into awaiting arms and the fit of cackling laughter in the never-ending darkness.


End file.
